Winter Pastures
by Bardicsidhe
Summary: Ten years down the road, and the YGO team has turned twenty-five and gone their separate ways. Tristan's had a year to get over his relationship when Dev disappeared. And then… he gets a call. Complete.
1. Sometimes, I think about you

**Title:** Winter Pastures (Original title: _I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues_)

**Author:** Bardicsidhe

**Pairings:** Past Tristan Taylor x Duke Devlin, Past Seto Kaiba x Duke Devlin

**Rating:** R for language and adult content. Contains slash. Don't read if you're not immune.

**Disclaimer:** _Yu-Gi-Oh! _and all of its facets don't belong to me. All of the events portrayed here are fictitious. This fiction is not sponsored by the Amarillo Board of Tourism.

**Summary:** A decade down the road. Tristan's twenty-five, with all of the horrors of Duel Monsters and the love he shared with best friend Duke Devlin behind him. But when his new life and new start in America is turned upside down by a visitor from his past a year later, he has a chance to make things right again. But things are hardly ever that easy.

**Notes:** _Winter Pastures _was originally a songfic to complement the song "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues," performed by Elton John. It's gotten far, far longer than I ever intended, and since the song no longer fit much more than the first chapter, I ripped it out. I've been doing some major overhauling to this fic, with more changes to come. No major plot changes, just consistency things and the beta that it badly needed years ago.

* * *

_Half the people in the world are men. Why does it have to be you that stirs me?_

The question - half stolen from a favorite movie - reached the chill winter air in a wordless sigh. The reason for the thought, and the wryly amused smile that followed was hanging over the workbench in Tristan Taylor's garage. His eyes caught the picture of the three of them - himself, Serenity Wheeler, and Duke Devlin, posed in their formal attire with cheesy smiles and victory signs. They stood on the long front steps of the cathedral where the young woman in the center of the photograph had been married.

Unorthodox since the moment she discovered her independence, Serenity had two best men, rather than a bridesmaid. After all, who better than the pair of boys she loved as brothers since…well…

Since she'd caught them acting like a little less than brothers. With each other.

_That was ten years ago. Serenity got married three years ago, right? And Dev…_

He hadn't seen Duke in a year. At least…not in person. Not since they'd broken up for the last time.

Though it was hard to miss the bastard standing next to Seto Kaiba in the magazine glossies, complete with a smile and another expansion set to _Dungeon Dice Monsters_. "Billionaire gaming giants Kaiba Corp. and Industrial Illusions join forces for new holographic research," the headline read.

The tabloids scripted the truth even more eloquently. "Love in the cards for Kaiba-Devlin Duel Monsters Merger. Mutual friend tells all…"

_Fuck._

He'd tried not to believe it…tried to believe that Duke couldn't _possibly _see anything in that overdressed, self-absorbed egomaniac. When neither party denied the relationship, Tristan realized that _he _couldn't deny it, either. They were brilliant inventors, successful businessmen, and wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. It made sense.

Tristan moved to America shortly afterward. Because, given the circumstances, _that _made sense.

He worked off and on in small towns across the country, making his way slowly west, and south. He didn't need to. Frugal and cautious, Tristan had a respectable amount of cash at his disposal by the time he left Japan. But he had plans for that.

When he reached Texas, Tristan decided to put a few plans in motion, and began scouring the realty magazines.

By January, he'd put a down payment on a home, and invested most of his savings in a custom motorcycle garage now in Amarillo. Business had grown to a point that Tristan was considering hiring another mechanic. He wasn't rich, but he could pay his bills on time.

Though it put him utterly out of reach of Duke and Kaiba's world.

In Tristan's opinion, the further away, the better.

To them, he was just another one of their marketing statistics. _20-25-year-old male, self-employed, automotive engineering, $80,000 annual gross income._

He was someone they tried to _sell _to. Honestly? Didn't sell to. His demographic was way outside the industry's targets. So as far as they were concerned, he was a statistic they didn't even highlight on the spreadsheet.

_Bastards_.

Tristan glared at the picture over the seat of the old Triumph he was re-styling, and refused to acknowledge its presence thereafter.

Not for another twenty-four hours, at least.

* * *

Tristan was in the middle of heating another makeshift late-night dinner of popcorn in the microwave when the phone rang. It'd be Joey, of course - Serenity's older brother and Tristan's best friend all through high school. Nobody called this late at night except Joey. Dammit, couldn't the guy _ever _remember that Japan was on the opposite side of the world, and that morning for _him _wasn't necessarily morning for everybody else? He waited until the fifth ring to be sure that whoever-it-was _really _wanted to talk to him, and poked the 'stop' button on the microwave before it scorched the popcorn. Then, he reached for the cordless receiver on the counter and padded into the living room. The _Speed _Channel was airing Vintage British Motorcycle Week, and dammit, if Joey wanted to talk to him that bad, he could afford to share Tristan with the Nortons and the Triumphs for a few minutes.

"Hello?" He asked, skeptically.

"Tris…?"

It wasn't Joey. There was only one person who _ever _called him by that nickname.

Tristan froze.

"Tris…are you there?" The voice on the other end sounded concerned.

"Y-yeah. Hey, buddy, how're you?" He recovered quickly, though not without a hard swallow. "Haven't heard from you in a long time, man."

He needed to sit down. The couch was the closest and Tristan all but fell into it, ordering his treacherous adrenaline to ease off before his hands shook.

"I know." Was there an apology in the tone? "I've wanted to call you for a long time."

"Hey, it's okay. Looks like you've been too busy, anyway." Somehow, Tristan kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Yeah, a little, but I still wanted to talk to you. Missed you, man."

_Shit. Guiiiilt, guilt guilt guilt._

Tristan let the arm of the couch take all of his weight, and dropped his forehead into the palm of his hand. The last time Duke said that to him had been the evening he returned from a long business trip abroad. The words had come as he'd been tucked in bed against Tristan's side, sated, his skin bearing the metallic tang of sweat and sex. Even more than a year later, Tristan could _still_ remember the warm, sticky pressure of the other's skin, stretched out against him while he slept.

Amazing what a single phrase could dredge up.

He realized too late that it was a bad time to be daydreaming over the past. For a brief instant, the never-ending restraint crumbled, releasing the words that pressed against the back of his teeth. They slipped out before Tristan could catch them. "I've really missed you, too."

There was a long pause on the other end of the conversation.

Tristan caught the dangling end of the slack before it ate up the entire phone call.

"So you and Kaiba, huh? Read about it in one of those gamer magazine…things." Nope, not the tabloids. He was _never _going to admit to reading those things. Even though Elvis wasn't dead, Bat-Boy was still held captive at some research facility, and yes, a huge red dragon had been spotted over Battle City. "Funny, back when we were kids I spent most of my time being pissed at him."

"Tristan…"

"Things are working out pretty good here. I've got my own place, my own shop, and the old gang even calls me every once in a while. I don't suppose I'll ever see as much money in a lifetime as Seto makes in a year, but eh, I'm happy. I guess." Tristan was rambling, and he knew it. But he _wasn't _still torn up after a year of being without Duke, and he wasn't about to let the other man think anything of the sort.

"You are?" He couldn't properly read Duke's tone through all this distance, but Tristan fancied it was incredulity. After all, could Duke imagine anyone ever getting over _his _devastating charms?

Of course not. It was one of those things that just didn't _happen._

"Yep. Pretty much. It's kind of nice here, Dev. If you and Kaiba ever get the chance, you oughta fly over here and see what you're missing," He grinned against the receiver. "they've got real trees here. Big ones."

"Actually, I was considering that."

"Oh, really? You two going to take a vacation, or something?"

"Well, it'd be just me."

The air density thickened. It hurt to draw a breath. Tristan's heart flipped over; leaped into his throat to displace the choking lump of unspoken words.

"Do you think that would be okay? Would you mind showing an old friend around?" Duke asked the silence, when Tristan didn't answer.

_Stop reading things into it, Taylor. There's no reason for it. Old friends…that's what you are now. Old friends. But what if…_

His niggling subconscious started in, and a fine thread of hope pierced a heart where for a year, none had existed.

_No 'what if.' You know where that takes you. _Tristan ordered himself firmly, suddenly aware of how long he'd been keeping Duke waiting for an answer. Okay? It was _better _than just _okay!_

His heart started beating again, in the proper place.

"Sure, Dev. That'd be great. When are you thinking of coming overseas?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Not a fan of advance notice, are you, buddy?" Tristan blinked in surprise. Well, he had that kind of money. People as rich as Duke could apparently dash off for anywhere at the drop of a hat.

"I was packed to go anyway." The sudden clipped change of tone in the other man's voice indicated that perhaps this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment journey. And not exactly a pleasure cruise.

Besides, Tristan knew his ex, inside and out. His explanations were thorough and obvious, and rarely left anything hanging unless he wasn't supposed to say it in the first place. And whether Duke liked to admit it or not, his expressive voice made him _very _easy to read.

"Dev, what's wrong?"

Another long pause.

"I'll…tell you later."

He hung up.

Tristan listened to the dial tone in mild disbelief for a moment or two. Then, he took the cordless back to the kitchen and collected his bag of popcorn. It was cold and he wasn't all that hungry anymore, but eating was better than thinking.

He wasn't sure he wanted to think at all, for a while.


	2. Sometimes, I remember

God knew why he did it. But there Tristan stood outside the airstrip, cold, tired and leaning against the hood of his old dually pickup. He watched the personal aircraft zipping in and out of Amarillo International Airport. It was late afternoon, per the information Duke emailed not long after his brief phone call. Little tinfoil airplanes dove over the edge of a corroded eight-foot chain link fence and touched down, almost lost under the cover of unkempt grass.

It had snowed – an unexpected blip on the radar screen – and quite a lot, actually, for Texas. Here in the lukewarm south, two inches of powder mixed with road dirt and salt and sloshed into half-frozen puddles the exact shade of a Coca Cola.

Duke explained that he'd take a transfer from a major international airport miles away in Houston, and catch a 'puddle jumper' from there to the smaller airstrip just on the eastern outskirts of Amarillo. Tiny was the better word. Amazing how a mile and a quarter of asphalt could come to mean so damn much in just a handful of hours.

He hugged his jacket closer and checked his watch. It wouldn't be much longer, now, before the northbound-airliner came plunging overhead…

Tristan ran a nervous, calloused hand through his hair. High school was over, and so were the four years of tech school - he'd long since given up on the military-style crew cut. Now his _real _hair…rich sable curls - the bane of his early existence - tumbled down to his shoulders in waves. Tristan was twenty five. Old enough to stop giving a damn about whether people thought he looked 'tough enough.' He owned a chop shop, for heaven's sake. Nobody screwed with bikers.

Especially not gay bikers.

_Heh._

Could he handle this? Duke wasn't expecting anyone to come and pick him up…Tristan could always just leave now…or wait to see him safely on the ground, and _then _go…

_He won't know me. God knows I've changed. Plus, he'll probably expect me on that damn Yamaha. I wonder if I should tell him that I totaled it._

Maybe he would. Just to see what kind of a reaction he'd get. Despite the sober gray afternoon, Tristan snickered.

_I guess I'm staying, then._

Soon the air hummed with the buzz of the small craft's prop wash, announcing its presence as it made a beeline for the main runway.

It touched down, bounced, and touched down again, following the leaping pulse of Tristan's heart. A year had passed. A year was a long time…

The radio broke back into music after the commercials were over, and Tristan caught a few familiar strains from the speakers as he walked around the driver's side of the truck to lock up before heading out to meet Duke.

Richard Marx wailed the first few lines of his trademark tear-jerker. _Of all the days to leave it on the soft rock station…_

The music arrested him, midreach for the ignition to pull out the key in disgust. Tristan paused, leaned an elbow hard against the seat, and listened, eyebrows raised skeptically. What…was Marx some oracle, now? Or was Tristan's anguish something that happened every day?

He choked. All of this was too close, too immediate, and too _right now_ for him to deal with. Just the thought of Duke headed his direction again was enough to make him hypersensitive.

With every fiber of his being, Tristan wanted to just reach out and flick the radio off…make the year-old pain stop _hurting _with the same intensity as it had the night Duke left him. It was winter, then, too.

_A year ago…_

"I can't _do _this anymore, Tristan! I _can't_!"

Tristan stared in disbelief at the dark tee shirt of the man at the window. Duke leaned heavily against the panes, back turned coldly on the apartment they shared, palms pressed against the frosty glass.

What was wrong _now_? As far as he knew, everything was perfect…he'd never been so happy before…_never_…

"Dev…what's going on?"

Tristan used the affectionate form of Duke's last name. He'd adopted it when Duke professed to secretly hating his given name. Blue-black hair swished as Duke turned. He swatted away Tristan's hands before they could wind their way around his lover's waist in apology for whatever he'd done. Tristan knew it was his fault. It had to be.

"Do you love me _at all_?" The brilliant green eyes blazed with supernatural fire, and a burst of anger that threatened to consume both of them if unleashed. "Or are you just with me because you're scared of something changing?"

"_What_?"

"Love. Me. It's a simple question. Do you?" Duke's words were slow, deliberate, and sharp. His dark shirt, pale skin and thin form made him wraithlike in the low, chill wintry light.

Where was this coming from?

Outside snow whispered down, unchecked by the breeze. The streetlamps; the headlights of passing cars and the lances of golden light from other windows turned it to glitter. It seemed too perfect. Unreal. Tristan tore his gaze from the glass, willing _this _to be a dream.

Was everything falling apart?

"Of _course_ I do, Dev. Please, don't-"

"Then why are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Why can't I touch you in public? Why do we always have to 'wait until we get home'?"

He sensed a dam break, somewhere in the backwaters of Duke's mind. And he was helpless to stop it. His protests weakened.

"Dev…"

"Why don't you wear the ring I gave you?"

Now _that _hurt. And he had a damn good reason, too.

"I _do_! I just can't-"

But his lover was beyond listening.

"Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed of what you mean to me?"

"No! No…I…"

"…Or ashamed of what _you _are?"

No blade of steel could have more thoroughly slashed him open to the core. Tristan felt something that had only seconds before been burning red-hot…go cold…and the coils of anger within his mind sheathed and squeezed him like a spitting serpent. Its venom burned.

"Why do you _have _to ask? Why do you keep pushing me? What the hell do you _want _from me?" Each progressive question mark raised the volume of Tristan's voice, until at last he was shouting.

Duke could have been a statue of ice. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, and Tristan shook as the wave of angry heat passed; left him empty and chilled to the core.

The same heat that had burned in Duke's eyes switched off, like a switch thrown on a sunlamp. For a blissful second, Tristan thought that perhaps he was going to have yet another you-lucky-bastard-second-chance.

"Nothing."

The single word carried Duke to the apartment door, and down the stairs to the street…and then he was gone.

Tristan didn't see him for a week. And then one day, after work, he came home to find all of his lover's belongings taken…and the silver-and-jade ring he'd given him as a Christmas present atop Duke's pillow on their empty bed. A piece of paper had been rolled up and inserted through the tiny circlet, and when thick, trembling fingertips at last mastered the note, there was only two sentences scribed across it, in Duke's artless scrawl. Two lines of dialog from a favorite movie. One they'd laughed over. Quoted.

**"Half the people in the world are men. Why does it have to be you that stirs me?"**

* * *

At least winters in Texas weren't quite so cold.

Tristan pulled himself up into the truck and eased into the driver's seat, arms curled around the steering wheel with a soft sigh. Before him, the plane was just giving passenger clearance, and the door opened, spilling its contents down the stairs and onto the runway. If he hurried, he could make it inside…be waiting when his lost heart's green eyes loomed clear of the milling crowd.

_But I guess I didn't love him enough to make him stay before…_Tristan's irrational, emotional side argued, _he never said _why_ he wanted to come, anyway. This is silly. He's still Kaiba's, for all you know._

Logic reared its head and sternly ordered those irrational thoughts to have a beer and settle down. _You know Dev, _it insisted,_ he wouldn't travel alone unless he had to. The damn cheerleaders hounding him in high school were proof of that. _It sat back, satisfied with itself._ Stop second-guessing him. He hated it when you did that._

Reluctantly, Tristan released his deathgrip on the steering wheel and switched off the radio. He needed to hurry.

The terminal was small, but neat and polished, and Tristan found himself drawn into the waiting crowd of greeters by Duke's gate. Not long now… the anticipation of waiting made him hold his breath; scan every passing face for a familiar smile as passengers stepped out of the boarding gate and into the arms of loved ones.

He hadn't seen Duke on the runway when he walked in - but that didn't mean anything…did it?

"_Tris!_"

It didn't.

He barely had a span of three breaths to register the voice's owner before a flying body pummeled into his, and painfully familiar arms wound their way around his neck. Reflexively - and then an instant later, intentionally - Tristan pulled the lithely muscled form into his embrace.

_Dev…_

It was too close…even after all these long months, if Duke pressed any tighter against his body, he'd forget himself…claim that radiant, smiling mouth again and _kiss _him breathless. Screw the watching crowd. Whether they saw them or not, this moment was _his_.

The smaller man's silken head nestled against his shoulder, and Tristan's senses overwhelmed by the full, glorious scent of his hair. Black tea and the sharp tang of cinnamon…oh, God, how could he have forgotten how incredibly _good _he smelled? The other had not bound his hair into the customary taut tail at the back of his head, and now it spilled forward around him, begging Tristan to touch.

A moment.

Two.

Three…and then it was over. Duke pulled back, still beaming that dazzling smile, and caught Tristan's arms up in a fond, firm grip.

"It's so good to see you, Tris! And _damn, _don't you look great? I wasn't sure you'd be here…"

"Yes you were," Tristan teased, "you came all this way to visit _me_? Of course I'd come to meet you. Plus," His hands came up, catching Duke's elbows before the other man could think of an escape, "you're irresistable, and you know it."

Duke's eyes flickered. "Not…quite…" he replied, slowly, and covered the falter with a blink and a stream of merry chatter. "Anyway…you've got to show me around this city! When we came down through the clouds, all I saw was…scrubby bushes and sand."

"Mesquite," Tristan corrected offhandedly, and turned towards the baggage claim, "though you've got the sand part right. Come on…let's get your bags. Where are you staying?"

Silence.

"Dev?"

The smaller man turned slowly to face him. Tristan frowned.

"You don't have a place booked, do you?"

Another pause, and Duke shook his head reluctantly, like a rebellious child with a secret.

_Great. Just great. There's a piece missing to all of this. I know there is._

Tristan swallowed hard, before pasting on a brilliant, confident, I'm-over-you smile.

"Well, if you don't mind the place smelling like axel grease, you can stay with me while you're in town. I'll take the couch - I'm usually falling asleep there, anyway."

Duke nodded, albeit a little less reluctantly than Tristan would have liked. He wasn't going to make this easy on either of them, was he?

And no, he _wasn't _going to let himself think about the dark-haired, green-eyed god, tangled in his sheets.

But it was like trying not to think of a blue cow.

And now the green-eyed god was smiling at him again.

_Damn_.

"Let's go," Tristan harrumphed, uncomfortably, and led the way to the baggage claim.


	3. Sometimes, I realize

Every memory echoed painfully out of the past that night, as the pair surrounded an order of Japanese steakhouse take-out and a six-pack of a local microbrew, and pummeled either other with questions about the missing year of their relationship. Remarkably, Duke somehow managed to sideskirt the entire issue of Kaiba, only mentioning him offhandedly once or twice in reference to something else, and always evading Tristan's questions about him with a change of topic.

Once was chance. Twice was coincidence. Three times was conspiracy, and it'd gone past that by more than a short way.

What was he trying to hide? Or was he simply trying to preserve Tristan's feelings?

_"Hey, baby, it was the greatest sex of my life, and we made love like tigers, but I never loved him. It was just great sex." _Tristan imagined he'd say, and smiled ruefully.

_Sure. That's so Duke Devlin that I could almost believe it._

"Hey, this stuff is pretty good," Duke chuckled, uncapping his fourth bottle of beer, "So…is there anyone interesting in…Amari…Amarirr…" He faltered, frustrated.

"Amarillo," Tristan nodded, gently, recalling just how hard it had been for him to overcome the limitations of his language to pronounce that name. In fits of passion, he still couldn't do it. "and no, not really. That's why I came here, you know? But the only guys I meet are bikers…"

"And bikers _aren't_ gay!" Duke giggled, finding the irony hysterical.

Tristan glared. "Har, har. You'd think that would make me hot property."

"I'm sorry, Tris," The instantly apologetic man hiccuped, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "I wish you'd found somebody nice. You deserve somebody nice."

It was the beer talking, and they both knew it. But Tristan couldn't help himself.

"I had somebody nice, once. But I screwed that up."

"I'll bet you didn't screw up. I'll bet you shjush…'hem. I'll bet you just didn't fight hard enough."

"I thought I was fighting, Dev."

Hell, it'd been a year. Let him indulge in a little melodrama.

"That'sh…that's your problem, Trish…" Duke waved his bottle intelligently, finding his advice to be quite the cleverest he'd ever heard, "you give up too easy. Wasshamatter… afraid of winning shomethin'?"

"Dev," Tristan sighed, "you're drunk."

"'M not!"

"Yes, you are."

"Not! Here…I'll prove it!" And he tried to get to his feet, uncoiling himself from the armchair. The results were disastrous. He managed a second or two of wobbly stability before the load of beer he carried shifted in the pit of his stomach. The room fuzzed delightfully, and he stumbled.

Tristan was there in an instant, darting up instinctively to catch him before he kissed the floor. Duke found himself dangling in the circle of Tristan's arms, knees bent mid-fall and backside jammed into the other man's crotch.

Tristan's latent sexuality flared up and informed him that yes, he still found Duke _very_ attractive, thank you very much. He'd been guarding it very tightly, of course, since his ex stepped off that plane…but here…inhibitions loosened by the potent bottled brew, the deadbolt on his desires slid back. With very embarrassing results.

Heat. Both in his cheeks and…elsewhere…

But he couldn't just _drop_ him…

Duke dangled yet, bucked against the forearms holding him captive. "Tris, what're you…?"

"Sorry." Tristan bent deeper with a grunt, and released one arm to sweep under Duke's legs. It took a lot less effort than he'd expected. "You can't walk, man. I'm taking you to bed."

"Oh?" Duke Devlin the Deviant reared his head, as the raven-haired man tipped his face back from where it was previously cuddled into Tristan's throat to leer at him. "You didn't use to be shuch a fasht mover..."

_Keep it up, Dev, and I won't be able to walk in a minute._

"I'm still not," Tristan corrected gently, and earned himself a sigh. The other's impish face returned to its place against his throat, hiding whatever might have been veiled in those expressive eyes.

By the time Tristan lowered the other man's thin body to his bed, Duke was practically unconscious. The only signs of life were hazed, half-lidded eyes, which still flickered remarkably with a little green despite the effects of the alcohol. Duke had the heavy, limp weight of a dead man now, and for all his tugging, Tristan realized that he wasn't going to be able to undress the other man without an exhausting battle. He settled for shoes and leather pants - painted-on cowhide certainly couldn't be comfortable to sleep in - and dropped the loose garments into a pile on a nearby chair. His friend seemed so very fragile, as a convenient spill of moonlight lanced across the floor and painted his skin into frigid pale blues. His face, at least, was a still mask, though for alcohol or other fumes eddying about his brain, Tristan had no way to tell.

_Just keep going…don't look too close…_He drew down the covers and tucked the other in with the tenderness of a parent, and straightened, turning away to pull a pair of decent sweats and a clean tee shirt from the bureau.

A hand caught his wrist in a vise-like grip.

"Tris…"

"Hm?" Tristan turned back, trying to quell the judder of shock the other's touch had caused. Duke simply lay back, staring up at him from the backlit depths of suddenly wide green eyes. It seemed the simple act of reaching out like this had taken all the reserves of courage he possessed, because whatever Duke had to say died on his lips.

…So he smiled.

It always used to work, didn't it?

_Well…it's not going to work now._

There was no smile in return from the shadows clothing Tristan's face. He shook off the other man's grip, and turned away to his previous search the bureau under the far window for something to sleep in.

He couldn't have seen the way Duke's face fell at that…if he had, perhaps he would have changed his mind. But regardless, hunger and soft sorrow chased one another across Duke's finely drawn features. He studied the taut pull of fabric across Tristan's shoulders as the other man bent to scoop up an elusive pair of sweats. He found himself suddenly, quite uncomfortably sober - at least for the moment. With an irritated frown, he schooled his expression.

"Tris…" He tried again, the sound a soft choke, as though it were being dragged forcibly over all of the barriers erected between himself and…_this_… "Tristan…?"

Tristan straightened and turned, moonlight spilling over the soft waves of dark hair across his shoulders. His expression was just as unreadable as Duke's. Encouraged, Duke continued, rushing to free himself of the words as though every syllable hurt to utter. This alcohol was becoming more and more uncomfortable with each passing minute, and if he didn't hurry…he might not get everything out.

"I shouldn't have left you the way I did. It wash…wasn't all your fault. I know that. I was jush…just angry. And Seto said…"

"_Seto_?"

"Tris, don't say it like that. It wasn't like that at all. He just…"

"How do you expect me to say it?"

"Maybe… like you care?"

"It doesn't matter. It's okay. Just let it go." Tristan replied flatly, and stripped off his shirt to replace with the one foraged from his drawer. He rather enjoyed the uncomfortable look on Duke's face. Maybe it was raw denial.

_Let 'em suffer. _

The dark-haired man seemed slightly unbalanced now, hands fisted on the comforter and swayed ever so slightly.

"I can't," Duke offered at last, timidly.

"Why?"

"Tristan…" Duke's clenched fists tightened in the blankets. The world was beginning to swim again…but this time it was cold and hard and moving too fast…

"Why can't you let it go?" Tristan pounced on the other's words like a dog at a fresh bone and refused to let go. "You let it go pretty easily last year. What's changed?"

Duke swallowed noisily.

"Tris, if you don't…I think I'm going to…"

"To what?" Tristan demanded, stalking closer to the bed.

Duke looked up at him, pale and irritated and pleading all at once. And then his face turned a new shade of ashen. "Throw up?"

"_Fuck! Wait!_"

They sat crouched together on Tristan's now-bare mattress, carefully avoiding the damp spot towards the head of the bed. Duke knelt with a bucket between his knees, using Tristan's shoulder for support as the other man held the length of his dark hair well away from his face, fist gently resting between his shoulderblades. "Lightweight," Tristan couldn't help but smile.

"Go to hell," the miserable, thick voice reverberated its irritation in the plastic echo of the bucket, inciting a somewhat ill-timed snicker from Tristan. Which in turn incited a vicious nudge, and another unsteady gasp on Duke's part.

And so they sat, for several more minutes at least. Before Tristan at last swallowed his grin.

"I'm sorry, buddy. I forgot that you really weren't one for drinking…"

"I used to be. _You_ ruined me." Duke sniffed.

"Okay. Your vow to stop drinking was _not_ my fault. Just because I yelled at you after I had to see every cherry from the bottle come-"

Duke retched. "I could do without that image, if you don't mind."

Tristan patted his shoulder, chagrined. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"How are you feeling?"

"How do I _look_ like I'm feeling?"

"Sorry."

"How many times are you going to keep saying that?"

"As many times as I need to." Tristan looked down, suddenly, just barely remembering to keep a secure hand on Duke's hair. "I think I've got a lot of catching up to do on apologies."

The other man grew very still under his hand.

"I never wanted apologies," Duke said quietly to the bucket, "I just wanted _you_."

"I know." Tristan sighed, "You told me."

"It wasn't- Seto was-" Duke started, voice roughened by tears brought on in the strain of nausea.

Tristan tugged on his hair, and he raised his head, bleary, contracted green eyes meeting Tristan's brown in the uncertain light. Slowly, the taller man shook his head. Of all the possible times they might share after this night...there was no urgency powerful enough to explain Duke's relationship with Seto over a plastic five-gallon bucket.

"You don't have to explain tonight."

Duke favored him with a smile that bordered on benediction - the effect lost by the icy white pallor of his skin. "Thanks."

"No problem. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Duke shot him an irritated frown. "I'm not a little kid."

"Sorry-"

"You said it again."

"S...hey!"

Duke snickered, paled again, and dropped his head back into the bucket with a moan. "I'm _so _going to kill you in the morning."

"I'll be sure to clear off before then, okay?" Tristan grimaced, and gingerly pried Duke's fingers out of their desperate clutch at the smooth plastic walls of his bucket. One arm slung around his shoulder, he eased the other man to his feet. Duke swayed, and gave him a glare that promised bodily injury for every misstep. Not the nicest drunk, was he?

"No. I want you around to witness your own gruesome death."

By some miracle, the pair of them navigated a mostly straight course to the bathroom in a few minutes. Duke clung to his bucket like a child to a teddy bear, which would have been endearing had it not been for the entire ridiculous situation. Or had it not been for how much Tristan feared being killed in his sleep at the moment.

Soon enough, the taller of the pair had installed them both in the living room. Duke slumped on his stomach on the sofa, and Tristan was on the floor near the couch, a mound of pillows and a warm nest of blankets providing an inviting alternative to the bed. He carefully slid the bucket into a safe position between himself and his friend's possible range, and nuzzled into his pillow with a deep sigh. Even considering the situation, it was still deeply soothing to be in the other's company again. The sound of his breathing was so achingly familiar, and the moonlight dallied over his shoulders and the strands of his somewhat draggled hair, lovingly caressing the well-known, dangerous landscape as though it, too, felt the months of separation as rawly as Tristan had.

It was strange, how their relationship had changed over the years. At first…well…it'd been mostly horseplay. But they _were_ teenagers after all. And then, he'd thought their partnership had grown deeper, solidified by crises after crises that he and Duke faced together with their friends. Trust had been there, as they grew out of their teenage rebellions and into the maturity of adulthood that eventually consumed everyone.

He'd learned to appreciate the little things - like the soft caress of a forearm laid against his for comfort while they slept.

Duke's hand, clutched on the rim of his bucket, tightened until the knuckles whitened. Tristan heard the soft squeak of skin rubbing on plastic and looked up. His gaze squeezed in sympathy as the other's green eyes shone out beseechingly from the pallid face of misery, lying with one cheek pressed to the cushions.

Slowly, as though he didn't quite dare, Tristan reached out and covered Duke's hand with his own. His eyes widened in surprise as Duke regarded it warily, then deftly tangled his fingertips through the other man's and drew them in against the curve of his jaw. Tristan shoved the bucket out of the way and scooted closer, unwilling to break the tentative contact.

The darker-haired man caressed his palm for some minutes, until at last, a deep, drugged sleep overcame him and dragged him into the darkness.

Maybe the precious little things weren't so dead, after all.

Tristan smiled to himself in the shadows.

And so they slept.


	4. Sometimes, I lose it

Duke woke first, dragging a hand over his eyes and cursing the sunshine that lanced through his raw eyelids. What the hell had he been drinking? And why did his mouth taste like sour steak teriyaki? Then, when he shifted, the bed didn't move quite the way it was supposed to from memory, and he realized as he twisted in the cramped space that he _always _kept his shades down in his own bedroom.

What the hell…?

He forced himself up onto one elbow to get his eyes out of the glare, and immediately sank back with a roaring headache tearing at the inside of his skull like some kind of rabid bear. The drop shoved the sun right back into his eyeballs, and with a blistering curse, he slapped a palm over his face.

Light snores from just out of sight over the edge of the couch made him jump, and the sudden clenching of muscles made his temples pound. Suddenly, in a rush, all of the pieces of the puzzle snapped together. _Plane.__ Beer. Teriyaki. More beer. Hangover. Oh…Tristan…_

Gingerly, Duke rolled to the edge of the cushions and peered over, delicately ignoring the contents of the nearby five-gallon bucket. There on the floor in a tangle of loose sheets and blankets was the man in question, splayed out on his back. He looked utterly peaceful, the troubled expression missing, and the sun firing the thin stray wisps of hair to gold. Well, that answered _that._ Duke reached out a long, slender fingertip and jabbed Tristan's upper arm. "Wake up, dammit!" He hissed.

Tristan grunted, poked out of layers of sleep. He'd forgotten. Even sober, Duke in the morning was no peach. "Eh?" He answered intelligently, and opened his eyes, squinting at the watery early light.

"I have a hangover that's going to eat you alive. Nrgh," clutching his forehead, Duke rolled back into the couch with a grimace, "if you don't help me."

"Hey, I didn't make you drink all that!"

"Don't shout! You'll make it _worse_," Duke winced.

Tristan sighed, and untangled himself from his sheets with a wince of his own. Maybe the bed smelled like yesterday's steak and Captain Austin's Finest, but it wouldn't have left the incredible knot in Tristan's back. Sleep on the floor. On a cold floor in the middle of winter. Yeah, nice job, Tristan. Too bad he hadn't played nicer. Maybe he and Duke could have—

"This is your fault, you know."

—Or maybe not.

"I know," Tristan replied in what he hoped was a civil tone, as he fished a huge glass out of the kitchen cupboard and the bottle of painkillers from the bathroom. He returned, balancing a brimful cup of water in one hand and the medicine in the other. "It's always my fault, somehow."

"It's too early for sarcasm." Duke glared, but accepted the water and pills with a muttered 'thank-you.' Then, handing the empty glass back to his host, he thudded back into the couch and yanked the blanket over his head.

"You want any breakfast?" Tristan asked deviously, on his way to the sink, "I could fry up eggs, with big chunks of onions and garlic." The plastic tumbler hit the bottom of the sink, and he drew out the word until it turned into a cheerful taunt.

"Mmph," said the blanket in the living room, shivering, "bastard."

Tristan's soft snort of laughter was a blessing to his ears, and he heard the footsteps nearing again, and the putrid reek of the bucket drifted away. The toilet flushed, and he winced, and then the tub ran for a while. The sound of water was soothing and steady, and he drifted back into sleep in the wash of ambient sound.

The next time he woke up, his body reminded him smartly that he hadn't been taking care of it at all for the last twenty four hours. _Forty-eight_, it whispered, and running the tip of his tongue over gritty teeth, Duke realized that headache or no, his fastidious personality wasn't going to let him get away with another minute. What did the clock say? Three? Despising the guilt that always came with oversleeping, He rolled off the couch and staggered into the bedroom for a change of clothes and toothpaste. The door to what was presumably the workshop stood open a crack, and through it, Duke could hear the tick of aluminum tools hitting a concrete floor as he passed by in search of the bathroom.

He found it on his own, and exulted. A shower! A full bath! So these Americans didn't live like heathens, after all!

He stripped off his shirt – grimacing at the unnamed odor clinging to the fabric – and left it in a puddle of burgundy against the wall. His underwear hit the floor next, and with a soft _plumpf_, so did the neat folds of denim and cotton he intended to wear afterward.

A spray of hot water hit his chest in due time, and the last traces of his hangover followed the tiny swirl down the drain. Thank God. Now he could finally think. After almost twelve hours of sleep, Duke was wide awake. Almost uncomfortably awake, as a matter of fact.

_Well_.

Yesterday hadn't turned out quite the way he'd expected, had it?

But then, what _had _he been expecting? Some kind of wild sex in a parking lot on the way back to Tristan's place? Please. That wasn't _remotely _Tristan's style, thank-you. He could be as slow as teriyaki sauce fresh out of a freezer, as far as romance was concerned. _More like a girl than a guy, _Duke snickered, long fingers massaging his favorite shampoo into his scalp and the unholy tangle of dark hair streaming down his back. The poor guy was always mortally afraid of rejection, which really went against the grain of his devil-may-care obsession with motorcycles and other risky businesses. Kaiba, on the other hand, had a vastly different philosophy on life. He'd take risks if he wanted to win, no matter the odds. And that was how Duke had ended up gracing his bed.

It started with questions, innocent and unremarkable from the mouth of a good friend. If only the dice gamer had seen the calculating glimmer in Seto Kaiba's eyes.

_"You don't look so good."_

He didn't. He'd just come fresh from another not-argument with Tristan, and the amount of repression in the exchanged words was enough to coil him into a taut ball of nerves. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set and pulsing from the occasional grit of his teeth. And he was even paler than usual.

_"I don't want to talk about it."_

He'd known Seto as a kind of faraway role model, as far as business successes went, and once Industrial Illusions and Kaibacorp took interest in his game, Duke started traveling in social circles that brought him closer to the dark brunette. They met on a more personal basis than they had in Battle City, and a tentative friendship forged.

And all the while, Tristan remained a constant in the background. Their relationship had long since carved a fairly smooth path from rocky beginnings, and Duke knew he could always count on the guy's support, just like Joey and Serenity always could.

It was just one argument he'd had with his boyfriend. His boyfriend of several long years.

_"Are you sure?"_

Always boyfriend. Not partner, or mate, or – oh horrors! – husband. Just boyfriend. Back when he discovered he could chase pants _or _skirts, depending on the day of the week, Duke promised himself that he'd be happy with just that. He was obsessed with the thrill of the hunt. The wanting was a hell of a lot better than the having.

_"Yeah…I…"_

Was it? Really? The wanting?

It was just another argument. Just a silly argument. In fact…he thought he should head back to find Tristan and apologize…

_"You don't sound very sure."_

Duke couldn't even remember when they'd had that conversation. It was just so unexpected. There was an inflection of worry in the other man's voice that didn't quite match the Seto Kaiba he knew. God, did he drill _Mokuba _like this?

He couldn't remember the place. Or the time. Was it Seto's office? He remembered the scent of cinnamon, but that could have been his own hair. Mostly Duke just remembered the words, and the way those frank blue eyes seemed determined to beam their way inside his soul.

Never mind the fact that in the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Duke thought he looked like a tiger sizing up a kill. Never mind that.

Suddenly, he was telling Kaiba everything. His own doubts. His fear. Everything he'd said to Tristan. Everything Tristan _hadn't _said to Duke, but what he'd _known _the other guy wanted to say. About how cold it was in the apartment. And about how he was mortally afraid that Tristan was just…putting up with him. He wasn't the easiest person to live with…

And through all of this, Kaiba nodded. Nodded and agreed.

Nodded and agreed and—smiled.

"**Idiot**!" Duke's snarl echoed in the shower, as the flat of his fist struck the tiled wall of the shower and bounced off. Then, feeling incredibly foolish, his head snaked around the curtain, to be sure that nobody had heard. Who was he worried about? Tristan? Or did he _want _Tristan to hear it? _Yeah. Tristan should hear the whole story. Maybe he'd forgive me._

"Dev?" A sudden query from just outside the bathroom door, and Duke jumped out of his skin. "Are you okay, man?" He sounded a little panicked.

His fist smarted a little. Duke rubbed it briskly under the warm water, and he shook the wet streaks of dark hair off of his neck in irritation. _Was_ he okay?

He heard the clap and reverberation of the handle hitting the wall as Tristan swung the bathroom door wide open and charged inside. Duke hadn't answered right away, and given what the poor man had just been through, he feared the worst for his…houseguest. "Dev?"

"Y-yeah…! I—" Said a split second too late, as suddenly the plastic shower curtain ripped back and Tristan was staring him in the face. They blinked at each other in shock.


	5. Sometimes, I can't help it

"I'm fine," Duke finished, a little late and a little lamely. It might have even been a little insincere if he'd had time enough to think about it.

"Uh. I thought you fell. Or something." Tristan continued to stare at through the unruly spray of water, but he was blushing furiously and Duke could see that he was trying _very_ hard not to look down. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the downturned corners of his lips. Well, what more could he want? A fucking gold foil-embossed invitation?

Duke leaned over, very well aware of the view he offered as he did so, and turned off the water.

"Tristan."

"Hm?" Tristan replied intelligently. A drop of water rolled down out of Duke's soaked hair, across his temple and caressed the curve of his jaw, and went on to slide down his throat to disappear in the sheen that glazed his skin. He fought off the desire to lean in and lick that moisture away. His blush spread from his cheeks to his ears.

Duke reached out with one damp, lightly flushed hand and pushed the flirty curls of rich brown hair away from his friend's brilliantly red ears. His smile broadened. A dimple showed.

A much broader and stronger hand than his clamped over his own, trapping it where it lay against Tristan's cheek. "Dev," Tristan protested, asking with a syllable to go no further. But the protest was weak; getting weaker.

"You can't blame the beer this time, Tris. I _am _coming on to you."

"But you! You're…" Tristan struggled for an excuse to duck away. He didn't want to duck away, honest to God, but he was strangling in the grip of those green, green eyes, and in a few seconds it wasn't going to be safe anymore.

But it already _wasn't _safe anymore. Humans do strange things for even stranger motivations, and he'd think about that later. Regardless of the 'why,' what he _wanted_, and what he'd _wanted _for a little more than twelve months was…_this_.

Thank God that he chose to ignore his irrational brain for a moment to pay attention to a lower part of him that had far fewer scruples.

The 'why' was painfully easy to understand, at any rate. Especially after Tristan felt the damp slide of Duke's arms soaking into the collar of his work shirt. The porcelain barrier of the tub wall separated them, but in a breath his arms snatched around Duke's waist and hauled him over. He was off balance already – in more ways than one – and he slipped as they spun, dropping heavily to one knee and then his rump. It didn't matter, because Duke was in his lap and the slick naked wetness of his skin was distraction enough to forget the momentary pain.

They moved together, like men who had spent their youth in one another's company. Duke reached up and roughly grasped his jaw, gasping for air against his lips and plunging in.

The twin rasps of breath filled the small, humid space. Tristan smelled of grease and metal, and his hands were gritty with it. Duke didn't care. He knew that scent…knew what Tristan smelled like and how he walked. How his knuckles whitened on the throttle and how the ridges of his spine felt through his tee shirt, clutched tight against his chest when they used to ride together on Tristan's bike.

Tristan pulled back. Duke barely silenced a frustrated growl.

Only to have him returned, kisses tender and slow, no hands touching, only the soft skin of his wrists and forearms. He was dirty. He didn't want to get the other guy dirty. _Oh…Tristan…_

"I shouldn't," Tristan started, and didn't finish as he pulled away again.

Duke swore under his breath. "Oh yes, you _should_," He insisted.

"But I-" Tristan squirmed, and tried to fight his way up. Perhaps the darkhaired man was somewhat lighter than he was by a long shot, but there was something to be said for pure stubborn will.

"Dammit, touch me!" Duke growled in frustration, leaned back and yanked his towel off of the counter without looking up. Jerking and tense with lust on the knife edge of aggravation, Duke pulled Tristan's hands around his waist to wipe the grit off. "It's not going to be perfect every time. It never is." He looked up from his work once. "Will you stop it? I don't care if you're dirty, or I have a hangover. Or if it's too cold or too hot or we're in the wrong place. I don't _care_."

"Dev-"

"Just _touch _me!" He tossed the towel away, braced his hands against Tristan's shoulders and shoved him down onto the chilly tile. Tristan yelped at the intense cold on his warm skin.

"You're such a wuss." The words were a caress.

"Am not."

And they were kissing again, Duke moaning into Tristan's parted lips as at last, hands brushed his spine. First hesitant, and then with a will, the alien, familiar blunt fingernails dragged over his skin. Duke gripped Tristan's chin, fascinated by the rolling interplay of muscles in his jaw. He rocked his hips against the other's jeans, and gasped as painfully sensitive flesh objected to the abrasion.

"Now who's a wuss?" Tristan asked with a smirk, lost and muffled somewhat in the heat of mouths.

Duke mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'asshole' and ripped his shirttail out, shoving the fabric up.

There was still an element of tension surrounding them…a question that neither dared ask, and neither could or _would _answer. What would happen after this?

Tristan tensed and moaned, letting his body arch while now-moist lips slid over the smooth warmth of his chest. He curled up to let Duke draw the offending shirt over his head. He was sweating. At least the floor wasn't so cold anymore. His hands slid up and down alone the naked curve of the other's back, as Duke's hair spilled down across Tristan's arm and shoulder, dripping a sopping puddle on the tile.

"Is this why you came?" Tristan asked in a husky whisper, as another nibble made him arch yet again.

"Don't." Duke's head shot up, his gaze still dark and glazed with lust, but now narrowed and dangerous. He clawed open the catch of Tristan's jeans, and without thinking, the brunette sucked in his stomach and raised his hips to help.

Nothing separated them but air now.

In breaths, not even that.

Duke gasped at the touch of Tristan's hands, and the bathroom and the city and the world blurred at the edges. Pulses pounded, and blood roared in their ears.

The tension was building again. If they hadn't been panting, they would have held their breath. Tristan found a stab of worry and regret and fear – where was this going to end up? Then Duke's lips were tracing up his jaw, and hard hands latched onto his shoulders. Brown eyes met green and found the same fear mirrored in their depths, but they were too far gone to stop.

And whether they liked it or not…it was too late…

They collapsed together on the bathroom floor.

"Fuck."

"Eh?" was Duke's unintelligent response.

Tristan shoved him off of his chest and fought to sit up. "Dammit, this wasn't supposed to happen!"

Green eyes blinked in uncertainty. "What _was _supposed to happen?" He asked, a little sharper than he'd intended, and pushed back onto his haunches. Stared hard at Tristan.

"I don't know," Tristan cast around for what the ideal was supposed to have been, and couldn't find it. "just not this!"

"Well, you didn't _act_ like it wasn't supposed to happen," Duke retorted, pushing wet straggles of dark hair out of his face and thrusting aggressively to his feet. "that was pretty good, for 'not supposed to happen,'"

"It was too soon!" Tristan protested from the floor, and struggled to rise as well. He snapped his jeans up and held them in front of his crotch in a wad, clutched between twisting clenched fists.

"It's _always _too soon. Or too cold, or too late, or there's too many people around…" Duke gestured airily with one hand, and snatched for a towel from the counter beside him. Tristan couldn't help but notice how thin his ex had gotten in the past year, remembering how those ribs had slithered with muscle. But he was slimmer now, ribcage sprung in prominence against his skin and far beyond what was healthy. What the hell had Duke been doing to himself? "…else that ruins the mood…Tris, are you even _listening _to me?"

"Hm?" He tore his eyes away from the standing ribs under Duke's skin. "Yeah…yeah!"

Duke snorted at him in disgust. "You're so full of shit. _This _is why we split up!" He hid his body in the thick folds of terry and glanced at the waiting clothing on the floor a touch impatiently. When was Tristan going to get the hell out of the bathroom so he could get dressed? The thought of the brunette's scrutiny as he bent naked after his jeans was suddenly too embarrassing to think about.

He didn't have too long to wait. Tristan's shoulders squared at the taunt, and he slammed out the bathroom door. Every movement was jerky and forceful with anger.

Heavy footsteps thudded away. Another door slammed somewhere distant.

Silence fell.

Duke sagged in a wave of exhaustion against the counter, towel dropped forgotten to the floor.


	6. Sometimes, You listen

Talking was only a little easier once they were back in the safety of denim. There was a hard edge to Tristan's voice now when he spoke. They struggled through a few fruitless conversations and let silence take over in defeat.

When Duke went back to the bedroom to take care of yesterday's clothes, Tristan escaped to the garage.

He heard the shutting of the garage door and heaved a sigh. _So this is how it's going to be? I should just go back home. Gods, Seto may have been bad… But at least he wasn't stone silent at me!_

_Then again, it isn't really all his fault._

* * *

Seto had been so willing to blame everything on Tristan. After all, who could ever really live with the 'strong silent type'? Those guys were only good for a quick fuck. Well. Seto Kaiba was not crass enough to use a term as _vulgar_ as that. But he implied it quite nicely.

_"How long do you think it will be before Taylor grows tired of you?"_

_"What the hell are you getting at?" _

_"Don't tell me you are that naïve, Duke. He's just... one of those people. It is simply for sex, and likely always was. Why is it that you haven't gotten any **further **than sex in…" _Kaiba steepled his fingers and gazed with frank innocence up at Duke, standing clench-fisted before his massive oaken desk, _"…how long has it been, you said?"_

_"…Nine years. But we live together…"_

It was the one thing he couldn't ever quite believe. Not when sometimes, Tristan had a tendency to just stop and watch him, no matter what he was doing. People didn't just... have sex with one another _for nine years_. There was a bond there, whatever that was worth.

_"And in all that time, has he ever suggested moving your relationship past sharing an apartment?"_

_"There's something else?" _Duke asked, blankly. He would regret asking that question, later.

Kaiba shook his head, smiling with a sadness that might have been real or patently false on his smoothly tanned features, and reached across the desktop to catch his hands and squeeze them, just like an understanding friend would do.

_"Much more," _he promised.  
-

Duke felt the tiny bites of pain in his palms and realized that his fists were balled again in anger. Goddammit, why did everyone on earth have the impression he could be bought with lines as cheap as that?

But he _had been._

It was more than that, Duke argued. Heard the little voice laughing and gritted his teeth. _Fine. I'll show _you_…_

He marched resolutely to the garage door, threading around the kitchen chairs to press an ear to the thin wood. It vibrated with muffled clinks and tinks and clangs and occasional curses. Ye-es…he was definitely in there. Duke pulled the door open cautiously and peered inside.

The slinky carbon steel-tube body of Tristan's latest project had been secured to a hefty workbench. Duke could see the top of Tristan's head through the mostly empty engine compartment. Tristan turned to the side, and Duke could see that he'd pulled back his curls into a taut ponytail. Then, as he reached for a set of ratchets in the other direction, and his profile came into view, Duke blinked. No, no, of course Tristan wasn't crying. He just didn't do things like that. But he'd never seen such a _wounded _expression on Tristan's face since-

Since he'd turned away from the window a year ago.

"Tris?"

Tristan jumped, and the ratchet dropped like a rock from nerveless fingertips. The nut he'd been moving to tighten into place flipped in the other direction to _tink_ onto the bench. It settled with a heavy metallic rattle.

"_Jesus_, don't _do _that!"

Despite Tristan's indignation, Duke found himself smiling. Entwined in his own thoughts well over three-quarters of the time, Tristan had a low startle point. Just another one of those things. Duke swallowed his grin and apologized before Tristan caught sight of him.

"I just wanted to say…Tristan…"

"It's okay." Tristan replied immediately without lifting his head from his search for the fallen ratchet.

"No, I want to say this. What I said earlier—"

"I _said_ it's okay, Dev. Don't worry about it."

"_Dammit, _Tristan! Will you let me finish?"

Tristan straightened with a stretch and dropped the tool again onto the table, and leaned forward, peering at Duke from underneath the muffler tubes of the motorcycle. "Fine," he said at last.

Duke found his hands reaching up for his hair out of nervous habit at that agreement to listen. The tangled tendrils of it were still wet, and he pulled it over one shoulder and twisted the tails of it in his fists as he bit his lip.

Tristan gazed up at him, trying to swallow a smile of his own. A good thing Duke didn't know how much he looked like a woman just now.

"I was just angry earlier," Duke started off, awkward despite the brief rehearsal of his speech, "I didn't mean it, and I'm sorry for-"

"No," Tristan interrupted, "Look, you were right."

"What?"

"I did some thinking." Tristan peered out the window of the garage at the wintry late morning sun. "Okay. Not a _lot _of thinking," He smiled at the chrome gills on the V-Twin sitting near his hip, "but I always make a big deal out of everything. After all, this morning, it was just—"

"Exactly." Duke nodded adamantly. "Just."

"Dev, you know you're my best friend-"

He didn't have time to explain any further. A jangling computerized _dit__ didit didit_ from Tristan's bedroom resonated through the wall and broke his concentration.

"Shit! Cellphone!" Duke turned to bolt.

"Just let it ring, Dev! I know I don't—"

_Dit__ didit didit…_

"I can't—"

"It's Seto?" Tristan asked. His tone was a little harsher than he'd intended.

Pause. They glared at one another, accusing.

_Dit__ didit didit…_

"I'll be back."

"…Sure."

The door swished shut behind Duke's retreating back and he sprinted to the cell phone before the fourth ring and the voicemail picked up the call. He dug to the bottom of the messenger bag he'd brought onto the plane, and unearthed the slick chrome-plated handheld. He slid it open. "Hey, it's Dev! Sorry!" Duke apologized to whoever was waiting for him to pick up.

The walls were thin, between the kitchen and the workshop. Nothing but joists, drywall and paint. Back in the garage, Tristan paused when he found he could hear Duke's every word through the division. Part of him knew it was wrong to eavesdrop. He really shouldn't stand around and listen in. After a moment or two, he reached for a soft rag and the new, chromed tip of an exhaust pipe. Stuff couldn't just go on the bike _dirty_, after all.

Ignorant of his audience, Duke continued his conversation on the other side of the wall.

"Yeah, nice to hear from you too." A pause. "I know I haven't called for a while..." Another pause, this one lengthier than the first. "...yeah, no, sorry about that. I cleaned that out last week. I've been staying with Serenity and her-" Duke's words bit off as if he'd been interrupted. Silence stretched, and Tristan could imagine Duke rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"no, I couldn't have-" Pause. "-all right, fine. You _are correct_. I wouldn't have stayed with you."

Huh. This was already getting good.

"No," Duke continued, pauses growing shorter now as he seemed to lose patience with the caller, "I never said I was going to! Will you just shut the-" Pause. "_No_! I didn't tell you because I didn't have to! I'm not trying to hide anything from you!"

Silence stretched again, longer than any of the other pauses. Tristan finished wiping the first chrome tip; picked up the second. He leaned against the edge of the workbench, hands busy. In the hiatus, some of the hysteria seemed to have gone out of the voice on the other side of the wall.

"I told you I was leaving. You just weren't listening-no, you weren't." Pause. "No, I don't have to. But if you want to know that bad, I'm with Tristan. Yeah, you remember Tristan? The guy I was with before." Pause. "Yeah. _That _guy_._ The guy who moved to Amarrirr…Amarri…"

Despite himself, Tristan had to swallow a snicker. Duke sounded pissed enough right now to have a problem pronouncing anything.

"Oh, _don't_ start that again. No, I'm _not _apologizing for saying that." Pause. "Yeah, you and everybody else. Apparently I can't think for myself."

Tristan grimaced at Duke's suddenly acidic tone. Who was he talking to? Nobody in their circle of friends ever warranted that tone of voice. Not even Joey, as dimwitted and overprotective as he could occasionally be.

…Kaiba?

No. Surely not. Old lovers didn't talk to one another like that.

"Well, whatever you think, he's _not _trying to manipulate me. He's _not _using me, and-" Pause. "-That's _none _of your business, dammit!"

Acidic went to angry in a breath. Tristan could almost _hear _Duke's fist clenching on the other side of the wall. '_Not trying to manipulate me'…they're not talking about _me, _are they?_

"I don't believe any of that shit, Seto!"

Well, that answered one question.

"And if you don't like _that_ word," Duke raged into the receiver, loud enough for the _neighbors _to hear, and Tristan flinched, "_Fuck _you!"

Silence after that.

Tristan started for the door.

Duke beat him to it, still scowling. His cell phone was neatly closed again and squeezed in his left hand. The skin was tight and white across his knuckles.

They stared at each other across the threshold.

"It was Seto."

Tristan had that much figured out. "What'd he have to say?"

Sudden vulnerability that telegraphed across already burning green eyes. Duke's eyebrows drew down just a little more. His lips parted, and he paused.

"It doesn't matter," He settled for at last, dropping his gaze as his jaw set in stubborn will, "I don't really care if he knows."

He stepped into Tristan's shoulder, regardless of whether the brunette was ready for him to do that or not. "I'm really sorry for picking on you," he whispered into the folds of Tristan's shirt as the other's arms closed around him, and when he looked up, the spot where his cheek had been pressed came away damp.

There was really nothing Tristan could say to that. And then there was something. "I heard you."

"I bet," Duke's voice was wry

"Are you going home?"

"Depends," Duke leaned his forehead into Tristan's shoulder. His fingertips curled in the rolled sleeves of Tristan's workshirt, and his sigh bled warm through the fabric. "I don't really want to."

"Then don't."

"That's too easy."

"That's a load of shit and you know it." Then his darkly tanned face broke into a grin. "And damn, I'm glad I've never gotten on your _really _bad side. Do you generally bitch at Kaiba like that, or was this a special occasion?"

A tiny chuckle. "Special occasion. I usually just saved all my bitching for you."


	7. Sometimes, I just,

Later that day, at Tristan's insistence, they abandoned the house and took his truck for a tour of Amarillo. Despite the fact that it was trapped in a tangle of mesquite and red-striped sandstone mesas, the town really was a far cry from the 'middle of nowhere.'

"That's the American Quarter Horse Museum," Tristan pointed out Duke's window towards a yellow concrete building, a huge stone horse statue on a pedestal on the roof. He tried to slow down and pulled over to the other lane to give his passenger a better look.

"I thought you only liked horses with a dual exhaust," Duke snorted.

"Hey, these are smart. I've ridden some at a friend's place."

"You're kidding me," He deadpanned, "_You_? Riding something with a mind of its own?"

A second or two of silence followed. Then Tristan snickered.

Duke rolled his eyes and sagged against the armrest of the door with a snort, fingertips touching his forehead. "Well, at least your filthy mind hasn't changed any. I guess that's comforting."

Laughter filled the battered truck cab. When it died away, Duke snuck a look over at Tristan, and caught him looking back. They shared a smile before Tristan turned his eyes back to the road.

The day looked a hell of a lot brighter after that.

* * *

"No."

"Yes."

"No, you're kidding me."

"Nnnnope."

"I find this borderline obscene."

"That's because you have a personal connection to the deceased."

"Well, obviously," Duke snorted. "So what kind of whacko would just _plant _these out in the middle of nowhere? I mean, seriously."

They really _were _in the middle of nowhere. On the eastern side of Amarillo, past the last vestiges of suburbia and in the middle of dense brush. Ten Cadillacs poked tailfins up out of the ground in a line parallel to the road. Duke circled them, hands in the back pockets of his blue jeans as his head craned up to squint at the graffiti decorating every square inch.

"Our whacko." Tristan replied fondly.

"Oh, so you've lived here a year and suddenly he's _your _whacko, too?"

"I ate the food, drank the water, and watched the porn. I'm officially an American."

"I always thought it took a little more effort than that," Duke bantered inattentively, tilting his head as he tried to follow some would-be prophet's scrawl along the second Cadillac's right fender. It was hard enough to read because it was English. Why did it have to be at a forty-five degree angle and eight feet off the ground, too?

"Well, in another few years I'm going to vote. Is that enough?"

Duke suddenly looked back at him. Tristan stood at the end of the path leading to the clearing in the brush, cracking the hard mahogany rind of a mummified mesquite pod with his fingernails. "You're planning on staying here for good?"

"Why not?" Tristan shrugged, "I've got a good business, it's a nice location, and I'm happy here."

"But your parents back in Domino…Serenity misses you. Hell, _everybody _misses you!"

"You don't think I came here just because of you, did you?"

"You mean you didn't?" Faced with the question for the first time, Duke realized quite obviously that _he_ _did _think that. He couldn't help it. It slipped out before he could stop it.

Tristan sighed. "Okay. Yes. The thought of running away _had _crossed my mind at first. But no. I came here because I wanted a totally new start. There's no future in the bikes I love in Japan, Dev." He shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of defeat, broken mesquite pod still clutched between forefinger and thumb. "They want Yamaha and Suzuki and Mitsubishi. Plastic, pretty, cheap. _You _know as well as I do that nobody in hell's going to want a rebuilt Harley."

Duke shook his head and laughed. "I forgot how passionate you were about bikes. Well, at least I got the 'leaving for love' bit right." He wrapped his arms around his own narrow chest and felt inexplicably lonely.

Tristan saw it, and frowned. "It's too damn cold to be out here like this. Let's go eat."

"Not yet. Can we go see that 'floating mesa' thing you mentioned earlier?"

"Oh, that? Well…it's a gray enough day, I supposed it'll work."

"Can we go up there?" Duke asked as he walked back to Tristan and let the brunette lead him to the truck. Tristan slung his arm around Duke's shoulders and tucked him against his side against the stiff breeze picking up.

The unconscious comforting gesture surprised them both.

"I think it's private property. But we might," he added when he saw the disappointment flicker. Opened the door for him and would have boosted him up if Duke hadn't already taken matters into his own hands and leaped into the passenger seat. Green eyes shot him an accusing glare. Wisely, he backed off. Duke was one of those people who took challenges to the extreme, and the _last _thing he wanted was for the other man to do something stupid to prove himself an equal.

* * *

"Oh, that is _so _cool!" Duke walked up to the whitewashed planks through the bushes and dropped his palms on them. "It's just a fence!"

"I told you that was what it was down by the truck," Tristan panted, stumbling up over the squat brush to stand beside him. "_And_ we didn't have to go halfway around the mesa for me to tell you that."

"It's not _my _fault you're such a wuss."

"I'm not!" Tristan retorted, "But this is private property and I _honestly _don't want to have the cops hounding us in a few minutes, okay? Nobody can see us from this side."

"Scaredy cat."

"There's rattlesnakes out here too," Tristan continued, unmoved by the taunt, and looked back over his shoulder at the path down, "but it's winter, and it's cold, so _hopefully _they're hibernating…what the hell are you doing?" He turned his head just in time to see Duke straddled halfway over the fence.

"Going up on top," Duke answered, as if that was perfectly obvious, and kept going. Tristan grabbed his arm.

"Oh, no you're not."

"Oh, come on, Tris. Take some _chances _already! What's the worst that could happen? Somebody sees us and turns us in? We're not hurting anything."

"But we could get caught!"

"And that," Duke explained as he shook out of Tristan's stunned grip and finished going over the fence surrounding the top of the mesa, "is why you never made out with me in public, isn't it?"

He started away through the chaparral. Tristan stared after him, pondering this. Grimaced. "God_dammit_…"

Followed.

* * *

"Hey, look at this!"

"What?" All pouting aside, Tristan scrambled over the top of the incline and stood up on the broad, flat summit of the mesa. He was a good fifteen seconds behind Duke, who was already across the rim and on his way to the opposite edge.

Duke threw his arms wide, taking in the world at large around them. The wind howling around the mesa whipped the tails of his denim jacket into wings. "_This!_"

Tristan came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. It really _was _spectacular. This far from the ground, the scrub on the sandy soil below melted together into a heather haze. The clouds were thick and low and dark on the undersides, and scraped low overhead as though they might brush their heads on the very ceiling of the world.

"We're floating with the mesa," Duke was going on, "if some guy comes driving along that road, he'll see us on top of the floating mesa."

This didn't strike Tristan as comforting.

But then a stark black ponytailed head leaned back onto his shoulder, and his arms found their way around Duke's chest.

"This was what you wanted, this morning, wasn't it?" Duke asked, quietly, ignoring the high wind that flirted with their jackets and tugged at their hair. His palms lay over Tristan's hands, cool as the rest of the day. "Not sex. You wanted this."

"Hey, I'm not turning down either," Tristan protested, and Duke could feel the bristle of stubble and the crease of his grin against his temple. He found himself smiling at the clouds, even though they blotted out the sun and left the plateau chilled.

"I always asked too much of you, Tris." His hands tightened on Tristan's knuckles, nestling his entire length into the warm forgiving curve of the other's body.

"I never tried hard enough."

"I never stopped loving you…"

"Me neither."

It wasn't exactly the admission of passion Duke was hoping for. But Tristan released and turned him at once, and pulled him in and pressed his mouth to a pair of startled parted lips.

He was only startled for a breath, and then his arms went around Tristan's neck. If anyone looked over the Floating Mesa, they'd have seen a single shadow standing on the edge.

* * *

"3 MESSAGES" Blinked Duke's cellphone when he turned it on in the truck, still flushed, shivering, and windblown from being on the plateau.

The first was from Joey's little sister, Serenity.

"_This is Serenity, and it's kind of late but I thought I'd call anyway. Seto just called and told us that he called you. All I can say is you go, girl, and call me back whenever you get a chance. All my love._"

The next two were from Seto Kaiba.

"_This is Seto. Duke, call me when you receive this voicemail. I demand to know what you told Serenity._"

"_Duke, I will be headed for America as soon as I can get a flight out. I absolutely refuse to let you go like this._"

Tristan remarked on Duke's long face, but when the other man let him hear the message, he felt like he'd just swallowed rocks. Seto Kaiba was the _last _person he wanted to deal with! He offered to take his companion to the nearest restaurant, and Duke agreed. Soon they were tucked into a corner booth with cups of coffee to keep the waitresses away.

Duke was suddenly quiet and stiff. The thin hands flexed on the tabletop were pale. Tristan reached out, but he pulled back.

"This isn't fair," Duke sighed, after a long silence.

"Well, whatever happens, I've got your back," Tristan reached a second time. Slowly. Fingertips crept past his cup of coffee. To the center of the table. Waited.

Duke looked down at the blunt fingers, with the crescents of dirt and grease ground under the nails. They seemed older than Kaiba's.

Tristan's hands turned up entreatingly. _I know I fucked up the first time,_ they said. _Let me help you now._

"Okay," Duke replied, solemnly, and found comfort in the warm, broad strength of the fingers enveloping his.

There couldn't have been a better time, Tristan thought. "Tell me about him?"

Snort. "What don't you already know?"

"Besides what's in the papers? Not much. You know he was never one to just hang around with us. Even in school."

"Yeah, he was a loner." Duke reached for his coffee cup. He took a slow sip, and stared into the depths of the dark, sweetened liquid for a long moment. "So…what do you want to know?" His tone was wary.

Tristan searched the slowly warming hand still in his grasp. Admired the vast difference in skin color; pale and tan. "Why does he call you 'Duke'? When three fourths of the population of Japan knows you as 'Dev'?"

Duke shrugged. "Because it's my first name. 'Dev' is apparently too casual, and it wouldn't look good if he called his lover by his last name."

Tristan bristled a little. After all, 'Dev,' had been the moniker _he'd _started dubbing Duke Devlin. It sounded cooler, back when they were kids. "Even though you say you don't like it?"

Another shrug. "Seto Kaiba is a stubborn ass. You do the math. And I never said I don't _like _it…but screams cliché. 'Duke of Dice?'"

Tristan snickered. "Did you ever think about Yugi's name?"

Dev blinked. "Oh. No, I didn't." The thought surprised a real chuckle out of him, "Poor kid."

Tristan's hopes rose. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"Same old. You've only been gone a year, man. He's collaborating with Industrial Illusions and Duel Monsters tournament winners to make some kind of tutorial videos. Oh, and Teá's close to kid number one. She's about ready to pop."

"I heard she was pregnant the last time Joey called. Man, I can't believe she and Yugi waited so long. At least Yoga's okay for pregnant women, so she doesn't have to stop teaching."

"Speaking of. Has Serenity called you lately?"

Tristan blinked at the sudden change of topics. "No. Not for a few weeks. Why?"

Dev paused, as though he were debating on something. Had something happened?

"Well…I don't know if I should tell you or let _her _tell you…but she's about three weeks pregnant, too."

Tristan sat back under the weight of that. Sure, Serenity had grown out of the itty bitty kid he'd hung out with when she tagged along after Joey…but _pregnant_? 'Married' was hard enough to deal with. "Wow."

Dev grinned. "Yeah. Exactly what I said. She only knew for a couple of days for sure when I left." The grin faded as quickly as it flashed. "She'll probably call you soon."

"Hopefully. I wanna know why she didn't call me _first_." The earlier kiss was still slowly burning away on Tristan's lips. He needed to steer them back to what they were going to do about Kaiba.

"Easy," Dev chuckled, "She always did like me better than you."

"That's bullshit! If I were straight I _swear _I'd have ditched you for her in a heartbeat."

Dev had smiled – actually, really, truly. No matter how briefly. He didn't do that very often.

He'd make him smile again. And then they'd deal with Seto Kaiba.


	8. Sometimes, When it's quiet,

By silent mutual agreement, neither man suggested returning 'home' until it was almost dark. It was cold by now, quite cold, and Duke slouched down in the cracked vinyl seat, tugging his jacket tightly around his chest. Tristan flipped the turn signal as he braked to ease into a gas station, and darted a glance at the other man before he turned the truck. The thinness of the ribcage between the arms wrapped around Duke's body reminded him of that shocked first moment of seeing him again in the shower. And for once, his _own _body didn't nudge him in reply.

Duke was just so _small_. He'd lost so much weight this year, and it bothered Tristan. He knew his best friend inside out – the separation between last winter and this was a drop in the bucket compared to the amount of time they'd spent together, and he knew with surety that the other man was too concerned about his own good looks to just 'forget' about taking care of himself unless something was very, very wrong.

He pulled up in front of the nearest empty pump and turned the engine off. Duke stirred from his meditation on the dashboard, looking up as Tristan stepped out and slammed the truck door closed behind him.

It was bitterly cold, with a breeze stirring the loose tendrils of Tristan's hair and the tails of his coat every few seconds until his cheeks and the knuckles of his hands ached with cold. The pale halogen wash of the lights overhead seemed to make the place colder, and isolated the gas station from the rest of the chilly night as the sky deepened into ruby on the blackened western skyline.

With the barrier of metal and glass separating him from Duke, Tristan felt like he could really think. He pried open the gas cap and set it on the sidewall of the truck bed, and reached for the nozzle of unleaded.

What had happened that threw Duke for such a loop? It couldn't have been Tristan's departure. It was conceited to think that any of his problems were Tristan's fault – the man was an adult, stubborn and independent, and entirely capable of caring for himself. So it couldn't have been Kaiba's fault, either. Could it?

He hadn't heard of Pegasus dying recently, Tristan thought with an inward smirk. But that still left a lot of ground to cover, and the rising sound bubbling within the gas tank signaled that it was nearly full. Irritated that the puzzle continued to elude him, he didn't notice when his cab light flicked on, or the body shifting across the cracked vinyl bench seat. Only the regular thud of someone handling the window crank broke him from his study of the nozzle feeding into his truck, and he looked up to see Duke folding his elbows on the edge of his open window, leaning out to smile at him.

"How's it going?"

"Almost done. Hey, it's cold and you've just got a jacket on, get back in there before you freeze to death."

"I couldn't sit there and watch you scowl any longer."

"Eh?" Tristan hadn't realized until just then how deeply he was frowning, feeling the muscles ease when his face relaxed. "I was just thinking."

"I guessed. What about?"

"Why did you decide to come here? Leave Japan, I mean," Tristan clarified when Duke offered him a _'well, duh' _expression. At the question, Duke's eyebrows lowered to normal heights, face gone impassive as he thought about the answer. That alone surprised Tristan. It seemed that this day in one another's company crystallized something lost a year ago. Whatever had been holding Duke at bay yesterday was gone. _Making love on the bathroom floor helped?_ The little voice supplied. As Duke was still thinking, Tristan allowed and thoroughly enjoyed the little spike of arousal at that memory. He still felt more than a little chagrined over the way it had happened, but - hell, life wasn't all Bon Jovi ballads.

"I don't know," Duke replied, at last, and folded his hands before him, studying them instead of Tristan's upturned, listening face. "Part of it was to see you again, and part of it was to get away from Kaiba, but that wasn't all of it, I guess. When my father died, I didn't know what to do with myself, and nobody seemed to know what to do with me, either."

Tristan, still too stunned by the sudden revelation of his friend's father's death to speak, simply nodded. The handle of the gas nozzle snapped. He ignored it. Duke hadn't looked up, and so simply took his silence for disinterest.

"I know, I'm such a bottle of angst, aren't I?" His tone grew sarcastic. "Sorry, I shouldn't dump all of that stuff on you, but hey, you asked."

"I was listening, Dev."

"Oh."

Silence hung awkwardly for a moment or two, before Tristan leaned over to pull the nozzle out of the gas tank and put it back in its holster. Duke was still watching him. He turned the cap on the tank until it snapped, and looked up. "Dig fifty cents out of the ashtray for me, would you?"

"The _ashtray_?"

"I don't smoke – there's change in the – oh, never mind." He pulled open the door and leaned right over Duke's lap, ignoring the other's startled inquiries. He flicked open the ashtray in the dash and retrieved a pair of quarters. A long, slender hand dropped over the back of his neck. The breeze stealing under the collar of his coat had chilled his skin, and Duke's palm felt like fire. "Tell me the rest of it tonight, okay?" He asked, softly. Without waiting for a reply, Tristan drew back and closed the door again, turning toward the station as he drew his wallet out of his back pocket.

He missed the softly stammered "y…yeah…" in the darkened cab of the truck.

The guy at the counter was a friend of his, and grinned at him while he rang up Tristan's change. His hair was shockingly red against his white attendant's shirt. Freckles sanded his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, making the poor man look ridiculously sixteen, although he was Tristan's age. "Hiya, Taylor."

"Hey Rick," Tristan replied, in relatively unaccented English, "what's new?" On impulse, he snatched one of the brightly-colored gum packages from underneath the front of the counter and slid it across the top. Cinnamon. Duke had a thing for cinnamon gum.

"Not much," Rick replied, as he rang up the extra eighty cents and added it to Tristan's tab. He thrust his head sideways toward the pumps outside, and Tristan's truck, where Duke leaned with his chin on his folded arms on the open driver's side window. "Looks like _you've_ got something new going down, though."

"Heh. Sort of, yes."

"New girlfriend?"

The two quarters from the ashtray clattered from Tristan's fist to the counter as his fingers spasmed.

"Not exactly," He replied as evenly as he could manage.

Rick's friendly grin turned into a knowing smirk at the slight jump in his voice. "Oh yeah? Hey, I gotcha. Here's your change." He handed Tristan back the leftover bills and change with a chuckle. "Got anything planned for this weekend?"

"Well…"

"_Besides _that, ya pervert," The attendant snickered, mistaking Tristan's reticence for an admission about the 'girl' parked in the cab of his truck.

"No…?"

"Good, 'cause there's supposed to be snow in the forecast for Saturday. Me and the guys are all gonna drag out the four-wheelers if it does. You in?"

"I don't know, Rick." _I can't take off if Kaiba's going to be showing up any day…but it's the holiday season, he'll have trouble getting here even if he has his own private jet. We'll have a few days, maybe._

"You can bring your girlfriend along if you want." Rick teased.

Tristan carefully avoided the urge to snort. "Could I bring a friend instead?"

"Sure, don't see why not." Rick picked up the package of cinnamon gum and flipped it at Tristan, who caught it neatly. "If there's four inches down by morning, I'll call you."

"Right," Tristan agreed, pocketing the gum and his change, and waved without looking back as he pushed out the door and back into the biting cold. To be honest, it _felt _like snow. Clouds hung thick and sluggish over Amarillo, burning with a few final shots of red from the setting sun.

"Got any plans this weekend?" He asked Duke when he got back to the truck.

Duke slid back across the seat. "No, why?"

"Fuck, it's cold! Why didn't you turn the truck on? And if it snows, I'll tell you." Tristan grinned a little, pulling the door shut behind him. He bent to roll the window back up, when a warm body slid up against his right side. He turned to look at his friend, and warm lips slanted over his, fingers threading against the nape of his neck to make the most of the element of surprise.

"I'll tell you everything, Tristan," Duke breathed when he drew back, exhaling in soft white puffs that vanished in an instant. "I should have, first. But when I saw you, I just…"

"I understand." Tristan couldn't think of a single clever thing to say.

"No, you don't. You _think _you do," The dark-haired man's pale face flickered with amusement in the light filtering through the windshield, "you always try so hard."

"It's what I'm good at." Tristan leaned away to turn the ignition over before they both froze.

"I never doubted that for a moment, Tris." Duke refused to relinquish his position at the other man's side, as they pulled away from the station and turned into the street. Blessed warmth from the vents roared over their skins, and they rode the rest of the way home in amiable silence.

It wasn't like it had been when they were teenagers, Tristan mused. Back then, _if _Tristan could have afforded a truck, Duke probably would have been all over him, distracting him, poking nimble fingers into his fly. The playfulness was still there beneath the surface, but maturity took away the nervous drive to impress each other. It felt good. What were married people bitching about?

Duke asked him to make love as soon as the engine was turned off and the garage door closed, and they barely made it into bed. The tussle that followed was as much a means to chase off their mutual fears as ward off the cold that seeped into their bones from the trip. Duke was even more tactile than Tristan remembered, fingertips everywhere, as though he were committing Tristan's body to memory, or realigning old memories of his lover with this stranger reclaimed a year later. Tristan tried not to touch the prominent ridges of his ribs.

Dozing under the thick – clean– comforter with Duke sleeping just a comfortable arm's length away was so familiar that for a moment, it felt like the last year hadn't happened. A deep part of Tristan's mind was still awake, however, and fretted silently that it had happened, whether they liked it or not, and in a precious few days, Kaiba would make him painfully aware of that fact.

Coffee brown eyes widened a touch at the thought. What was he going to do? Duke – _clever bastard_ – had managed to get away without telling him a single thing yet. Maybe it was unintentional. More likely, Tristan mused, it was Duke's reflexive evasive maneuvers kicking in. If he was uncomfortable, Duke Devlin found a way out without even thinking about it – he'd admitted as much before. But now they were a few hours closer to meeting Duke's ex, and Tristan hadn't gotten anywhere.

Duke rolled over just then, throwing a sleep-warm arm over Tristan's chest.

No, it wasn't true. He _had _gotten somewhere. And as much as his sense of propriety screamed at him, bedamned if he was letting it get the better of him the way it had the morning before. His fingers plucked through the full, slick tangle of Duke's hair, smiling when the touch elicited a sleepy murmur. The hand gently curled against his chest flattened, stroking down his stomach. Tristan looked down, and half-lidded, drowsy kitten eyes peeped up at him. He'd forgotten just how shockingly _green _Duke's eyes were.

"Hey," Duke grunted. Which - Tristan recalled fondly - was about all he could usually expect from the man, post-coitus.

"Hi there. Nice dreams?"

"Mm." Duke stretched until his shoulders popped and shifted under the sheets with a rustle of cotton until he was draped over the other like a living blanket. "Know what?"

"What?"

"I forgot to tell you something I was going to tell you. Before I forgot."

"Dev, you're still asleep," Tristan's voice was gentle with amusement.

"I am not."

"Then who am I?"

"Tristan," and as an afterthought, "Queen of Texas."

"Shut up," Tristan chuckled, circling his waist with his arms and pulling him down flush. He hadn't had anyone to share his bed for a very long time, and the touch of skin was missed.

"…I want to tell you now." Duke murmured into the crook of his shoulder. Tristan was immediately awake. He couldn't mistake the heavy tone; how the room quieted around the words. Tristan heard a soft _tick _against the glass of his bedroom window, followed by another, and then many at once. The predicted snowfall was coming down outside, filtering the wan light spilling on Duke's profile.

Tristan soothed the nape of his neck with blunt, callused fingertips, stroking the thick tangle of dark hair away from the fragile skin there, and waited.

Duke knew Tristan had always been quite verbal when they were younger, grumbling, groaning, muttering under his breath. He defied the 'strong and silent' personality that his appearance decreed. But Tristan had never quite grasped the finer points of understanding and talking about feeling, never quite figured out how to offer comfort with words. His silences were truly the most telling; the awkward moments when he could find nothing to say, said the most. Tristan waited quietly for the other's next words, and drawing back to look into the attentive dark eyes turned up to him, Duke realized that he'd forgotten how to 'listen' to Tristan.

"My father died six months after you left – you left in March, Serenity said," He began uncertainly, "I didn't know what to do – nobody else was there to help with the funeral, and I didn'twant to deal with it. Seto really came through with that. He took care of everything."

"If you'd called me, I'd have come back to help." Six months after Tristan left, he was working part-time in a Harley-Davidson retail store in a map dot city in Iowa, and nursing a broken heart by himself. He knew exactly what his ex-lover's father had done to him. He remembered cleaning up a bruised and broken teenage Duke when he'd pick fights for the sheer hell of it, just as Tristan and Joey had done before Yugi turned their comfortable little world inside out. If Duke had called him, he _would _have come home. Duke shook his head a little against the warm breadth of Tristan's chest.

"It wouldn't have mattered. I had Dungeon Dice Monsters. Final production was a nightmare. I had to practically hold the marketing department's fucking for the prerelease, then the graphic designers had the balls to get _precious _over the box art for _my _fucking game. Shipping dates pushed back about six times because of the manufacturer - you wouldn't think that twelve injection-molded monsters would be so hard to manage, would you? And meanwhile, I had Kaibacorp stockholders to talk down off the ledge."

"What?"

"…I had to convince them that I wasn't just some silly little whore their CEO was backing for sexual favors."

That stung, even now. Tristan knew that part of the story, but it still hurt to hear it. He lapsed into silence again. Duke went on, unaware of the change.

"After he was in the ground, I started to wonder about things. What if things had been different? What if Mom had still been alive? And the things he did to me. What if I never got past them?"

"Dev, he can't…"

"Why was it so easy for me to leave you?" Duke cut off Tristan's protest, "After nine years together, why did it just take a few words from Seto to make me leave you?"

There was no response, though Tristan's hands went stiff against Duke's shoulders.

"He told me that you were just using me, Tristan."

"And you _believed _him?" Tristan demanded angrily.

"Well…"

Now the silence surrounding Tristan was leaden. Recoiling, Duke pulled away from him, kneeling within arm's length with a careless disregard for his own nudity. "Did you think I could take the things I did and just _trust _the first person I fell in love with like _that_?" Duke snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"You never trusted me?" Anger dissolved in a sharp pang of sullen hurt. For not knowing how to communicate feelings, Tristan surely ran the gamut. He lay half on his side, the wave of his hair matted against his head, one hand stretched open on the sheets, halted halfway in its reach toward the other man in his bed. Cold air seemed to seep into the room from under the sill of the window at Duke's back, stealing the golden warmth and driving the snow-filtered light into shades of blue.

"I trusted you more than you know. But deep down, I've always worried that maybe you were just used to me."

"There's no 'being used to you,' Dev," Tristan protested in an exasperated tone.

"People have screwed me all my life. It gets to be a pattern after a while." Duke's slender silhouette, outlined against the window, took on an uncomfortable resonance. Tristan had been in this same place before. Just like then, Duke led him through a dance he didn't understand.

"Not _everybody_," he tried to reassure.

"I know," Duke sounded unconvinced, but nevertheless lay down again, missing the skip of relief in Tristan's chest when he allowed the larger man to wrap his arms around him again. The quiet closed over them like the blankets, and the little space of air between their bodies warmed again.

"It got to be a game,"

"Hmm…?" Tristan replied sleepily, having just been on the edge of dozing again when the low husky voice touched his ears.

"Seto and I. It was all right at first. I wanted someone to take care of me." The admission was tinged with guilt there, "and he was there, and offering. But when I came out of it – _you _know what I'm like – I don't think he knew what to do with me."

"You're not an easy person to live with." Tristan agreed. He rubbed the corners of his eyes. Duke poked him in the ribs under the covers, but relented.

"We argued all the time. I wasn't taking care of myself, and he wanted to know why, and when I told him, he didn't take me seriously."

"Why weren't you?"

"The… therapist said it was because I didn't want to let Dad run my life anymore. I don't know if I believe that, but I just nodded and took the Blue Pill, right? Seto just couldn't seem to get that fathers aren't supposed to do that kind of thing to their kids. But with _his_ dad? I guess I can kind of understand."

"You went to a therapist?"

"Work." It didn't need much more of an explanation, paired with a listless shrug of one shoulder. Duke had a lot of concerns that Tristan would probably never have, considering that the bikes Tristan produced didn't depend so much on marketing and age groups as it did on offering a quality product and building a client base. His advertisement was more by word of mouth than newspaper and radio, and he was just starting to do all right for himself. But in the beginning, being new to the game _and _a foreigner, it had been hard enough to make him appreciate the one-word explanation. His grip tightened around Duke's waist. He was gratified to feel the line of the other's shoulders softening against his chest. Duke went on.

"I'm better. With Seto it started to feel fake, like we were just playing at being in love, and I could still remember what it was like between you and I. Tris, sometimes I think... you're the only thing that's real."

Tristan didn't know what to say to that, but he didn't really have to. Like it had been on the mesa, and at the window in Domino a year ago, and time and time again before that, Duke leaned back just a little into Tristan's arms. The support had been there all along. But like always, he could never see it.

Tristan breathed in the scent of his hair, and closed his eyes.


	9. Sometimes, When it's dark,

The next morning, snow had indeed accumulated to at least four inches, but the skies were clearing, and it would probably be gone within the next twelve hours, despite the chilly air. Rick called early, and it was agreed that they'd all meet on his land a half mile north of Amarillo by nine. Duke looked interested, but from the set of his mouth, Tristan rightly guessed he was preoccupied by the prospect of Seto Kaiba touching down at the airport without any advanced notice. Tristan left Duke alone in the kitchen, busy with calls to Serenity and some business associates. Apparently, they needed reassurance that Duke Devlin hadn't fallen off the globe. Tristan glanced into the kitchen occasionally when his knuckles needed a break from scraping the close quarters of the ATV's engine compartment. From the animated tone and gestures, he guessed that Serenity must be on the other end. It must be good to be rich enough to pay for the hellacious roaming fees, he thought, and went back to work, hitching the snow chains onto the four-wheeler's tires.

Tristan went to the toolbox, dropping the pair of pliers he'd just used back into the top tray. He stood, bent over the counter as he peered inside, brow furrowed over some hard, unexpected thought. Then, with a resolute nod, he flipped the lid shut and latched it. Tristan slipped back into the house, passing Duke, who paid him no more mind than a one-fingered wave as he went past to the bedroom.

The sheets were still tousled, and Tristan took in the landscape of folds and wrinkles with a satisfied smile.

The cedar box still sat on top of Tristan's bureau, surrounded by spare change and spare keys and a broken wristwatch and throat lozenge wrappers. God, he was a slob about some things. He tugged the box out of the flotsam and brought it over to the bed. The mattress curved a little under his weight as Tristan sat, the chip-carved wooden oblong in his lap. He flipped up the lid and stirred the photographs and movie ticket stubs overlaying the objects beneath. The gray velvet curve of an even smaller box lid met blunt fingertips as he pushed them aside. He brought it out and laid the cedar box aside, with a cautious glance toward the bedroom door.

Tristan pried open the lid and drew out the contents in one quick swoop, laying the now-empty little box back in place. When everything was replaced, Tristan held up his prize. A silver ring. It still dangled from the gold chain he'd threaded it on the December before. The gold chain he'd worn through a plane trip across the ocean.

The one he'd taken off in July, when he first seen the pictures of Duke and Kaiba posing together for the merger notice.

The gold of the chain didn't suit it. Silver, inset with little bricks of jade, the ring was etched with an inscription: _You didn't get her. I won._

Tristan chuckled, soft and half bitten-off._  
_

After checking the clasp to see that it was still reliable, Tristan unhinged it and slipped it around his throat. The slender silver circle hung not-quite-flat against the folds of his shirt, and he dropped it down underneath his collar. It came to rest with a small, solid thump just below his collarbone. The silver warmed to his skin in moments, and Tristan allowed himself an indulgent, sentimental smile. Just one.

Then he went back to the garage, and wrestled the last tire chain on.

In a few minutes, Duke poked him in the back and passed the sleek cellphone over his shoulder when he straightened.

"Serenity wants to talk to you."

Tristan raised his eyebrows, unable to hide his pleased smile. Duke elbowed him as he turned to escape to the kitchen's warmth again. "She still likes me better, so you can quit grinning like that."

"You wish," He retorted, and raised the phone to his ear after Duke closed the door gently behind him. "hey, Gorgeous."

_"Tristan! I thought maybe you didn't want to talk to me anymore." _Her voice was still genuine and warm, with the touch of flirtish pout that signaled just how much of a woman she'd become. She was no longer the demure youngster he and Duke had hovered over, and the last time he'd seen her, Serenity's chestnut hair was far, far shorter, cropped into stylish ragged edges that flipped out becomingly around her head. Like a badge of her new status: wife, and now mother. He could almost see her now, sitting at her dining room table, one pretty elbow on the edge.

"Should I? Duke tells me you're pregnant and you didn't tell me first. I won't be able to live with him and his ego now, you know."

_"Aw, a decade later almost, and you're still fighting over me? I meant to tell you, Tristan, but things kind of got in the way. _Duke_ was living with us then, and he was with me when I found out. Poke him for me, will you?"_

"I will," Tristan smiled against the receiver.

_"Anyway, how're you? _Duke_ didn't tell me much about how you're doing, except that you and he were getting reacquainted, which I'm so glad to hear. And that Seto's supposed to be flying in to see him."_

They chatted for a few minutes, and then after a short silence, he heard her voice again, soft as a caress.

_"Will you take care of him, Tristan? Like you used to. He doesn't want anyone to know, but…after his father passed away…he's not as independent as he'd like everyone to think."_

Tristan only murmured assent. He already knew. "Count on it, Gorgeous. It's gotta be late where you are."

_"It is." _She understood the subtle hint. _"I'll get some sleep, before you _order _me, and you take care of yourself, Tristan. Don't go too American on me before I'm ready, okay?"_

"I won't," He laughed, "just so long as you make sure you send me pictures when you pop that kid out."

There was silence on the other end. _"You're not thinking about coming back before then?"_

"No, not really. I like it here. I'll come back and visit, I promise!" He hurried to reassure her, before she started another round of questioning. "I really have to go. Sweet dreams, kiddo."

_"I love you, Tristan."_

"Me too."

She laughed softly, and he heard the muted click of her receiver hitting the cradle before the cellphone went silent. He carried it back to the kitchen, picking up two pairs of leather fleece-lined gloves from the workbench as he passed it. They hit the table with a wet slap beside Duke's elbow as he sat by the window, peering out at the snow and the neighbor's dog in the next yard over, exulting in the miniature drifts.

"Ready to go?" Tristan asked, handing back the borrowed cellphone and stealing a sip of Duke's coffee on the upswing. He grimaced over the taste. Too sugary, but it was hot.

Duke nodded. He'd pulled his hair back in a ponytail, and at Tristan's insistence, added Tristan's camouflage ball cap over that, clicking the sizing band closed underneath the black tail of hair. Thankfully, he'd thought to bring a heavy jacket with him and borrowed a pair of Tristan's boots. He grinned up at Tristan after tying the laces closed. "Shit, you've got huge feet."

"Runs in the family." Tristan shrugged, ridiculously pleased by the comment.

Tristan's ATV secured in the bed of his pickup, they drove out to Rick's place, which just happened to be where the Quarter Horses he'd ridden lived. They were quiet now in their paddock, chestnut and roan faces lowered, but from the tossed look of the fresh snow covering the ground, Tristan guessed they'd made quite the time of it earlier in the morning. Duke watched them through the windshield with polite interest when he pointed them out as they pulled into Rick's driveway. He never had been the animal type.

There was a line of pickups where the driveway paused in front of the redhead's farmhouse. A few still had a four-wheeler in the back, red, yellow, and camouflage, or so thickly layered with grime that the color was indistinguishable. A knot of men in their late twenties clustered around the rear fenders of one of the pickups, a few with coffee cups or thermos lids steaming; one with a bottle of beer. Tristan looked at Duke. He'd perked up, eyes were bright with interest now as his gregarious nature showed through. He turned his head back to the driveway, hiding a grin as he parked beside Rick's blue Silverado. He supposed it might not come across as a compliment to say that a few of his friends had golden retrievers that acted the same way around people.

Rick detached himself from the group and ambled over to the side of Tristan's truck, a blue-eyed blonde man and a copper-colored husky in tow. Tristan rolled down his window, and Rick leaned in on the ledge. He was all smiles, as usual. When he'd first come to Texas, Tristan met Rick at a local rally, and the lanky redhead latched onto him, made friends, and introduced him around. "Hey, you made it! We were gonna give up you."

"Sorry about that. Got a late start." Seeing the curious tilt of Rick's head, and looking back to see Duke giving Tristan's friend the same quizzical look, he was quick to introduce them. "Dev, this is Rick Lyons, the guy who adopted me when I first got here." Rick flashed a blazing white grin.

All teeth, Duke observed, with just a hint of possessive acid.

"And Rick, this is Duke Devlin. He's…my best friend from back home."

"Dude, you're from Japan too? Well, welcome to America, Duke Devlin. Nice to meet you." Rick extended a genial, thickly-gloved hand through the window and across Tristan to Duke.

Duke accepted it and murmured, in accented English, "Call me Dev." Tristan caught the sudden low tone of his voice, and turned in time to see the dark-haired man shoot him a pointed glare.

Rick saw the look that passed between them, and his eyebrows rose. He backed away from the truck, still smiling, albeit cautiously now. His dog came to his hand, and he rubbed her fuzzy tawny ears.

"What?" Tristan mouthed silently, still looking at Duke. The other man shook his head and pulled the handle on his side of the truck, sliding out to the ground. Tristan turned then to look out at Rick, and shrugged. He rolled up his window and got out. By the time he'd folded down the tailgate of his truck, his best friend had insinuated himself into the group of men. He climbed up into the bed and unclipped the tie-downs. Rick and the blonde – _Michael_, Tristan recalled belatedly – carried over a reinforced sheet of plywood and set it against the end of the bed at an angle, and helped him get the ATV down the ramp and onto the ground.

"That friend of yours all right?" Rick asked, tone low as he and Tristan bent to check the tire chains one last time.

"Yeah, he's all right." Tristan tossed his head, flipping a tendril of hair out of his eyes as he looked over his shoulder at where Duke had gotten the entire group to laugh over something. "He's just kind of different."

"Oh, okay. I thought maybe he didn't like me or something. He looks kinda familiar," Rick mused, looking now, too, "you bring him out here before?"

"Nope," Tristan replied immediately, hoping Rick hadn't gotten a good look at him at the gas station, "he's only been in for a few days. First trip to the U.S."

"And he's seeing snow in Texas? Picked a good time," Rick laughed.

"Yeah." Tristan straightened, dusted off his hands, and shook Michael's hand as he tried to remember where he'd seen the blonde before. Rick headed back to Duke and the rest of the group to let them know they were moving out, and when Michael left, Tristan threw a leg over the seat of his ATV and turned the ignition over. He slid a pair of reflective wraparound sunglasses over his eyes against the glare, and drove up to where Duke stood. Grimacing in concentration, Duke gripped his shoulder for balance as he mounted behind him. Thin arms padded with canvas and down slid around Tristan's waist in a fluid, open-palmed manner that was blatantly not platonic.

"Just your best friend, huh?" Duke murmured against his ear, and Tristan winced at the obvious hurt in his voice. He tried to answer, but his friends surrounded him and passed him on their own four-wheelers, and he twisted the throttle aggressively to catch up, drowning himself in the buzz of the engine.

Duke seemed to forget the awkward introductions quickly, however, as Tristan accelerated. They played all morning, then all afternoon like big children in the empty pastures. They threw snow on each other, slicing deep arcing furrows in the fresh, feathery white as their tires lost traction and spun them in circles. An impromptu snowball fight began when Rick leaned down and scooped up a handful from a passing drift to hammer into Tristan's shoulder. Duke ducked away from the blow with a shout of surprise, and laughed at the disgusted downturn of Tristan's lips as he shook chunks of snow out of his hair. "Want me to get him for you?" Duke asked, forgetting himself and his anger as he was caught up in the moment. Tristan stopped, grinned back at him, and waited until he'd caught up a hard-packed chunk of snow from their tracks, before riding up on Rick's left side to wreak snowy vengeance when the tossed missile hit him squarely between the shoulderblades. Others took sides and dashed into battle, laughter ringing across the open land. Tristan stopped and peered over his shoulder while the four-wheeler hummed underneath them.

"You can be my wing man, anytime."

Then he let Duke man the controls, clinging to his waist as his companion experimented with the accelerator and the brake in frantic bursts. "This isn't like a motorcycle!" He shouted over the engine in frustration

"I know!"

"How do you turn the…?"

Just then, Duke overcompensated and a twist of his wrist sent the ATV shooting forward, spilling Tristan off the backside and into the snow. A chorus of laughter rose from all sides, and Duke tried to turn back to see what he'd done. Tristan rolled and whipped his arm out of the way just before the right side tires could run over it. "HEY!"

"_Shit!_" Thankfully the designer managed to figure out the basic controls, and the machine hummed to a halt short of causing any real damage. Tristan got to his feet, dour, shaken, and caked with snow. Duke looked up at him with wide eyes. Then he tumbled off of the four-wheeler and into Tristan's unsuspecting arms – they stumbled together and went over backward in the snow.

"It's okay! I'm okay!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry oh _fuck _I'm sorry! I almost killed you!"

"Dammit Dev, everyone's looking!"

Duke looked up at the onlookers. Looked down at Tristan. Grimaced and got to his feet, not offering his friend a hand up. Rick appeared at Tristan's elbow. "You all right, dude?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He spared a glance at Duke, who wasn't looking at either of them, busy picking caked snow off of his gloves. "I think I'm going to take him home. It's getting late anyway."

"Oh. Hey, that's cool." Rick arched an eyebrow at him, and Tristan inwardly cringed. He hadn't told the redhead anything – about himself, or about Duke, or Kaiba. He wasn't sure how these people would react, and it was already hard enough to sell his bikes as a foreigner…

Until he realized that Rick's eyebrow was more an 'are you sure?' gesture, as when he'd let the growing tension show on his face, the redhead just clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed, and turned away. Not suspicion. A glimmer of hope, then – maybe he _could _tell Rick. But now wasn't the time.

"Tell the guys goodbye for me, would you? We're heading out."

"Sure thing, Tris. See you around."

Tristan turned back fully to Duke, who stared after Rick's bright shock of red hair with disbelief and a hint of – was that _jealousy_?

"He called you…!"

"I think it was a mistake."

"Or maybe he's—"

"No. C'mon, let's go." Tristan hadn't liked the audible sneer in his companion's voice, and got back on the four-wheeler. After a moment, Duke joined him, though he clung to the rack on the back of the machine for balance instead of Tristan's waist.

It was easier to get the machine back into the bed of his pickup than to get it out, and soon enough they were pulling out of Rick's driveway and turning onto the road back into town. Duke didn't speak to him until they reached the Amarillo city limit sign.

"You haven't changed at all, have you?" He pulled his gloves off, loosening the fingertips first, and ripped his ball cap off, compulsively reaching back to straighten his ponytail with clipped, aggressive motions.

"What are you talking about?"

I thought you'd changed since you were here. I thought maybe you'd stopped caring about what other people thought of us. But you still do. You're still afraid."

"_What_? That's a load of shit!"

"Oh really? Then why is it that those guys all just think I'm your _friend_?"

"_Best _friend," Tristan clarified weakly.

"Yeah. Don't they have a word around here for that? Oh, that's right," Duke snapped his fingers, "_fuck_buddy."

"That's not—"

"Well, that's what we are, right? I mean, you sleep with me, but I'm still just your friend. At least as far as any of your _other_ friends are concerned."

"Why the hell do they _matter_?"

"They don't! They're not the problem! _You _are!" He crossed his arms over his chest and dropped into sullen silence. They rode that way for another ten minutes, until Tristan turned the corner that led back to his garage. He braked abruptly, sending the pickup into a nosedive and jerking the seatbelt against Dev's collarbone.

"What is you _problem_?" He demanded, and when Tristan didn't answer, he followed the other's gaze out the windshield.

He bit his lip, arrogance gone.

A strange car sat in Tristan's driveway.

Its fenders weren't besmirched with road grime, but a cake of melting snow sat on its hood.

Tristan swallowed hard, and accelerated again, pulling past the car to park in the space beside it. It had rental plates.

A long-legged shadow in an immaculate tailored overcoat unfolded itself from the padded bench under the overhanging eave of the house beside the front door.

"You certainly took your time in getting here," a deep, breathy voice criticized. Blue eyes turned down to meet a set of shocked, upturned green. "Duke."

Seto Kaiba.


	10. And the night is cold and closing in,

Duke was already out of his side of the truck, and stared at the interloper. Tristan leaped to the ground and slammed his door closed.

When his friend started forward – even though he was only on the other side of the truck – the brunette _still_ felt miles away. He couldn't stop the other man from breaking into a run and throwing his arms around Seto's neck. Tristan leaned on the fender, then grimaced and yanked his elbows away from the surface. It was still hot, the engine underneath popping as it cooled. He glared at it, inexplicably furious with the fading burning of his skin.

Seto wrapped his arms around the slighter man's waist after a few moments, and stroked his back. Tristan watched, eyes narrowed with dislike and a horrible feeling of intrusion. It was _his _house, dammit!

Duke pulled away at last, as though he'd realized they were being watched, and turned back, giving Tristan a good look at his expression. He looked…

_Happy…_?

That hurt. He'd spent three days of walking on eggshells to make the man smile, and the minute Duke's _ex _showed up, Seto Kaiba made all of that effort look superfluous. It wasn't fair.

Tristan waved, a sardonic smile curving his lips. "Don't mind me."

Duke's lips parted, and he started forward, but Tristan stepped away from the fender as he did so, pulling the door of his pickup open again. He just couldn't witness this any longer. What had Duke told him last night…a lot of lies? A tiny voice niggled at him not to leave so fast, but he ignored it.

"Tris? What're you—?"

"_I _haven't changed?" Tristan snarled, and leapt up into the cab. Duke smacked against the glass of the side window with the flat of his fist. For the second time today, the ponytailed man look frightened to death.

_Go to hell, _Tristan thought, a prick of guilt and wicked glee mixing at once. He started the engine and threw the transmission into reverse, pulling out of the driveway and grinding gears again to shoot down the street. A glimpse in the rearview mirror showed the thin man staring after him.

He looked ridiculous in those boots. They were too big for him.

Tristan turned the corner.

Duke's fists clenched as the truck disappeared, and didn't turn from his vigil until he heard Seto's voice brush the back of his neck like a caress. "Glad I didn't expect much of a welcome from him."

"You _used _me!" Duke accused as he spun, and Seto shrugged.

"You hugged me first, Duke, if you're going to play games like an infant. He chose to leave. Which, considering, isn't all that much of a shock."

Duke visibly wilted under those words, and sighed. He _was _being childish. Tristan would come back, some time. It _was_ his place, after all. And after what he'd said and how he'd acted, he couldn't really blame Tristan for wanting to leave. "I suppose you're right."

Seto smiled and came down the steps to Duke's side. "At any rate, he's not the reason I came to this place. You are." His expression was confident and self-assured. It grated. "I expect he wouldn't want to hear that."

"He trusts me." _I hope_, Duke added silently, praying that the next set of engine sounds was Tristan's. "If you came for me, then you wasted your time." He leveled a sober set of green eyes on Seto's deep blue and tried to ignore the brief betrayal of surprise and pain in their depths. Seto Kaiba revealed nothing for a reason. He wasn't above manipulating his own feelings to get something he wanted – he gave nothing away without a second motive. Duke told himself this firmly.

"You and he have…resumed your relationship?" The hurt blinked away, leaving cold and sarcasm in its place. "Right where you left off, I assume?"

"What are you getting at?" Duke suddenly felt the cold to extremity through his jacket and jeans, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd taken off his gloves in the truck. Soaked as they were, they'd still have been insulation against the chill. Tristan would have noticed. Tristan would have seen him shivering and put his arms around him by now.

And oh _gods _was he ever pissed at himself for thinking like that. What was he now, a girl?

"You've slept with him already, haven't you?"

"_What_?"

"Was it the first day you got here, or did he wait twenty-four hours before he attacked you like a stag in rut?"

"As if it's any of your business – which it _isn't_, by the way – yes. We made love last night." In a passion, Duke had dropped fluidly back into Japanese. His fists clenched inside his jacket. "Which is more than I can ever say was between _us_."

"You know that's not true." Seto's voice was level, but the muscles in his jaw tightened.

"Did you trick me in the first place? Your company doesn't need _Dungeon Dice _to survive! You lured me in with all those plans for a—"

"And you were having problems already," Seto broke in, "I did not lie to you, Duke, I swear that."

"You used me. You know how important that game is to me. You used it to get close to me, didn't you?"

"I would _never _put my company at risk for something like that!"

"For love?"

"Do not twist my words." Seto retorted icily, "You and I are far too alike – you would no more put _your _business at risk for the sake of love than I. But that is hardly an indication of how I feel for you."

"Do you even know me at _all_?" Duke spat, incredulous, stepping away from the taller man.

Seto reached after him belatedly, and dropped his hands after a few moments of exchanging glares. "Do you know _me_?"

"If I'm _wrong_ in thinking that you just came after me because a possession of yours ran away, then obviously…I don't."

A frozen pause. And then, "how _dare _you."

"It must have been pretty embarrassing for your lover to take off like that. Without so much as a note or two weeks' advance warning."

"After what I went through for you? After everything that I did for you – did you not expect me to be hurt?"

"Hurt?" Duke spat, teeth snicking shut on the end of the word. As though he were biting it. "You don't feel hurt. You don't feel anything."

"That's not true. I came after you."

"Because you didn't want anyone to find out that I'd run away from you!"

"Because I don't want _you _to run away from me!"

"Because you can't stand to lose!"

"Because I love you!"

Silence followed. Duke turned and went back to the bench by the door where Seto had been waiting for them when they'd pulled up. He sat down, keeled over and pressed the cold heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

He'd come here to get _away _from Seto. There, he'd said it. The trip wasn't to find Tristan so much as it had been to find an escape. His recent ex-lover knew to talk even the skeptical, cynical Duke Devlin into anything – _convince _him of anything, given enough time. Tristan, he'd hoped, could block Seto for him. Give him enough of an anchor to refuse.

But Tristan wasn't there now. Who did that leave? God? Dame Fate?

Himself?

He heard footsteps, soft-soled in the light cake of snow dusting the sidewalk leading from the driveway, and then the shift of heavy fabric as someone sat down next to him. A palm lightly touched his shoulder.

"Don't," He snapped, but the pressure didn't go away.

It wasn't Tristan. Tristan would have let go.

The palm slid over his back, around his other shoulder. Pulled him in close. He smelled weatherproofed wool, and turned his face toward the slightly abrasive folds of dark fabric, dropping his hands.

"I found you attractive when I met you. I couldn't understand why someone as brilliant as you would throw your lot in with Tristan and his friends," Seto lowered his voice. "He's not worthy of you. He never was, and I'll never understand why you can't see that."

There was no response.

"You know I need you," Seto continued, "I can't do this on my own."

"You need me," Duke echoed, muffled, just for the sake of saying something.

"Dungeon Dice Monsters is still just getting off the ground. You can't oversee production from here."

"I know." Was Seto's voice a touch patronizing? Why was he treating him like a child?

"And Mokuba misses you." Seto tried another tack.

One slender eyebrow arched over a disbelieving green eye. "It's almost been a week. He's still at the university." _You'll have to do better than that._ But he knew he was wearing down. It seemed that Seto knew it, too.

"I don't want you to go. Come back with me."

"So you won't look foolish?"

"Of _course _not, Duke."

"…I have to tell Tristan."

Seto's expression was unreadable. "Leave him a note." He got to his feet.

He did that once. Doing it a second time would be unforgivable. "In _person_." Then, after a second or two, "What are you, made of ice?"

The taller man had walked to his rental car, meanwhile, and unlocked the driver's side door. He looked up at Duke. "Sometimes I wish I were."

The new orange street lamps dotting the subdivision around the laundromat flickered on and made seeing hard. Tristan's eyes had always been sensitive to bright lights at night, and he squinted against the pain.

He flipped the turn signal on the steering column and turned right. A slender woman with dark hair stood on the corner, waiting to cross the street after he passed. The creamy lamb's wool lining of her denim jacket stood out against the shadows as he bleached her with headlights.

Fifteen minutes of corner-turning turned out to be fruitless, of course. How did Seto run him off – without even _trying_?

He felt baited and used. The radio lambasted him with an obnoxious used car advertisement. Tristan snarled and reached to turn it off, but changed his mind and simply turned the volume down. Noise was better than silence.

Why did he let the guy get to him all the time? Duke shouldn't have to face him alone. But who was he kidding? Duke could take care of himself. He was more independent than a cat, sometimes. And in the right crowd, he could be an arrogant bastard, even to people he cared about. Or pretended to care about.

Maybe Seto Kaiba and Duke Devlin really _was _the better match. Maybe Duke just outclassed Tristan to a point where he couldn't keep him. Didn't _want _to keep him. It was sacrilege to tie up someone that willful. When he'd ridden horses with Rick, he'd been told to let his mare have her head.

So sure, he could stand to ease up a little on Duke. So what right did Dukehave to call him scared? Hadn't he already proven to the other man that he was trustworthy? Why did he have to be touchy-feely? Some people were just different. Nobody knew how much Tristan _wanted _to not care. How much he wanted to be like Duke.

Maybe Duke would like to hear that.

And Tristan was tired of turning corners. He made a left and headed home.

Seto was gone and Duke was waiting on the bench beside the front door when Tristan got back. Hope rose in his chest, and he swallowed hard as he pulled into the drive. The sun was going down, and the headlights washed Duke even paler than usual before Tristan switched them off.

He looked awful, sick and guilty. People always looked like hell in front of halogen lights.

Tristan tried not to chew his lip and got out of the truck.

Duke watched him slam the door and walk over.

"I'm going back."

Underneath the bulk of his coat, Tristan's body arched and tightened in pain as though he'd been punched in the gut. He looked down, ready to _kill _whoever had just conjured the wind that iced the back of his neck. He shouldn't have left…shouldn't have disappeared when Duke needed him the most. So what if he was still having problems with people? Why was he letting other people decide his life for him?

"Is that what you want?" Thank _God _that he had his back to the light. Duke couldn't see his face properly. The cool tone of his voice only trembled a little.

There was a long pause. "He needs me."

"Is that what you _want_?" Tristan asked again.

"Tristan, I don't have time for this. Let me in so I can get my things."

"No."

"_Fine_," Duke said with an exasperated shrug, and started to stand, forcing Tristan to back up a step, "I'll leave them behind."

"Are you…I thought you weren't happy with him."

"He can't run my part of the company without me."

"So do it from here!"

"…I can't."

"Won't."

"Take your pick."

"Is this because of me? Because of what happened today?"

Duke shoved his hands in his pockets and met Tristan's gaze squarely. "No. Although it probably would have happened eventually, anyway. Look Tris…"

They both winced at the familiar nickname.

"…Tristan, nothing's going to happen. He needs me to take care of DDM. _I _need to be there, Tristan!"

"He's doing what he always does. There's _always _a reason. He asked if we slept together, didn't he?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Dev, I know him. Probably better than you do." There was no denying the snide remark lurking somewhere in the background of that statement, and Duke's fists doubled over inside his coat pockets. "He gets off on controlling people. He's _good _at it. He can take your worst fears and use them against you."

"Are you going to let me inside or not?"

"…yes."

"Okay."

"But only so I can get my boots back."

Tristan moved past him to the door, and bent down to pick up the newspaper that had been chucked earlier in the day onto his mat, and gold and silver slithered out of his collar.

"What's that?" Duke asked softly when Tristan straightened and grabbed the pendant before it could be noticed, shoving it back down his shirt.

"Old high school ring." He swung the door inward and gestured the older man inside.

There wasn't much to pack up – Duke shoved yesterday's laundry into a duffel and tucked it inside one of the heavy canvas travel bags he'd brought. He left the bedroom, carefully avoiding looking at the bed. If he was having second thoughts, Tristan thought, he was doing a damn good job of hiding them. Maybe Seto Kaiba was a better opponent than he'd _ever _given Shizuka credit.

Duke shouldered his bags and headed to the door without a goodbye. Tristan was just coming out of the bedroom when he spied the man standing out by the curb through his front window, cell phone to his ear, bags gathered at his feet like puppies. He followed.

"What, no goodbye?"

"I thought it'd be easier if I—"

Tristan stopped him before he could go any further, joining their mouths furiously with both arms twisted around the back of Duke's neck in case of escape.

He didn't, latching onto the lapels of Tristan's coat instead.

After a few seconds, the brunette got the sensation that he was being _allowed _to kiss Duke this last time, and pulled back. "You thought wrong. What are you doing out here, anyway?" _Calling Seto to come and get him,_ Tristan thought bitterly, and didn't say it.

"Calling a cab." It was too late. Tristan was standing with his face to the sun. Duke had an excellent view of his expression. A study in defeat.

"It'll take a cab ten minutes to get out here. I'll drive you."


	11. There's you, and then there's morning

It was a silent trip to the airport. The tension sprung up between them was of a different sort than what had been there two nights and a lifetime ago, when he was bringing Duke home.

_Home_. He was never going to be able to sleep in that bed again.

Or at the very least, maybe he'd burn those sheets. Just to give himself some kind of closure. _Closure_. Like a death. Sometimes, Tristan reminded himself sternly as he changed his grip on the steering wheel, he let himself get away with too much internal dialogue. He felt the slight stick of the vinyl and heard the peeling smack of it. He was gripping too hard.

When the truck finally rolled gently to a halt against one of the cinderblocks in the airport parking lot and the engine was off, they sat for a moment in the silence together. Duke reached to pull the door handle and get out.

Tristan beat him to it, clicking the lock from his side. Duke saw it flick in under his fingers and glared at Tristan after a fruitless tug. "Let me out."

"This isn't right."

"Of course not. It's called 'holding someone against their will.' They prosecute people for that in America, I hear."

"If you want to get out," Tristan shrugged, "then go. I won't stop you."

"Do you think I _want _to do this?" Duke threw up his hands. His face was turned away from Tristan, towards the passenger side window. "Do you think I _want _to fight with you right now? Why don't you want to come back to Domino? Everyone who loves you is there!"

"Hey, this is _your _choice, not mine. I don't _want _to let you walk into that building."

"You're not going to _let _me do anything."

"Of course not. You always get your way somehow." Tristan tried not to sound sullen. He failed.

"Where the hell did that come from? I'm doing this because I have to."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why do you always ask me questions? You want to know why I don't make out with you in front of other people. You want to know if I'm just using you for sex after a fucking _decade_."

"Okay, Tristan, I was wrong. I admit that…"

"But did you ask Kaiba why he wants you so bad? Or why he was willing to fly to the other side of the fucking world to get you back, and doesn't act like he loves you when you're five feet away? You're a _thing_ to him, and he doesn't like losing!"

"Tristan, calm down."

"Dammit, why don't you ever SEE that? Why is it just me? Why are you so fucking **BLIND**?"

"**CALM DOWN!**"

Tristan hadn't realized he was yelling. Duke's shout reverberated painfully around the tiny cab. His throat clenched with pain when his head whipped around to see Duke cowering against the passenger side armrest.

He reached out, an apology on his lips, but stopped himself. He was too angry. He wasn't sorry for what he'd said – whether or not he should have shrieked it at the top of his lungs.

"I'm not…" Duke stopped, fingertips twitching on the door lock. He swallowed hard. "I'm not blind. I made a mistake when I let you go the first time. But…you don't seem to need me anymore. You can't keep me here."

"I never said I—"

"I _have _to do this, Tristan! It doesn't mean I'll be back in his bed! Though knowing you," The raspy voice was thick and ugly, "you probably already have me pegged. Then why _shouldn't _I sleep with him? You think I'm that easy, I shouldn't disappoint you, should I?'

Tristan, realizing belatedly that this argument didn't involve him, sat back and stared. "I don't think you're—"

"Just forget it. I shouldn't have come here in the first place." Duke fumbled the latch open and threw the door, and would have struck the car in the next space if there'd been one. He was saying something as he swung his shoulder bags out of the bed of the pickup, and jammed the door shut without saying goodbye.

Tristan was out of the truck in a heartbeat, and grimaced as he landed in a puddle on the pavement. The parking lot was still wet, stained dark from the snow-melt.

"See you around," Tristan called, because there wasn't much else to do - short of chase him down. Duke didn't respond as he trooped resolutely across the damp asphalt. His shoulders were visibly tight and hunched beneath his jacket. He dwindled smaller, and Tristan wrapped his hand around the radio mount on the hood to stay next to the truck. It was _Duke Devlin's _choice. Someone held the door open for him, and he disappeared without a backward glance.

* * *

Tendrils of hair stung his cheeks. The vortex of wind between the hangar and the airport terminal was cold and dry, whipping flyaways come loose from his ponytail against his skin. His hands were trapped by the heavy baggage he carried. He stoically ignored the disapproving icy fingers and kept right on walking, stubborn chin raised, jaw pulsing as he gritted his teeth.

The small staff on hand admitted him onto the expanse of concrete beyond the terminal with no question, but Seto Kaiba's substantial bank account tended to make complications disappear. Sometimes it still rankled. Duke wasn't thinking about it much just now.

Everyone thought he was just something to use. _Everyone_. Tristan – as much as he hated to admit it – was probably right. Seto said he needed him, but the only time the man admitted a weakness was with a secondary reason. Why did Tristan think he couldn't see that?

In the truck with him, isolated in that little warm space, Duke had almost asked him to turn the truck around several times.

Everyone was allowed to make mistakes, right? He assumed Tristan knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't let someone else just talk him into something, right?

_"But did you ask _him_ why he wants you so bad?"_

Oh, but he _had_ let people talk him into things. Duke had already _told _him about how Seto turned him against Tristan in the first place.

Thinking about that as he walked across the tarmac, Duke thought maybe… that had hurt Tristan enough to lose faith in him. God knew Tristan second-guessed and doubted himself over enough. Maybe part of the original split had been because of Tristan, but the greater fault was _his_.

Duke Devlin, Homewrecker Extraordinaire.

If that was true, Dev told himself, then Tristan needed Dev like he needed a gun barrel in his mouth. So even if he'd hurt Tristan by leaving, it was for the best. His gaze dropped to the pavement in front of him and the scuffed steel points of his boots, moving one after another. It was for the best.

Wasn't it?

The jet loomed up in front of him, larger than life with brilliant orange and red serpentines glinting from every minute ripple in the chrome skin. A set of stairs had been rolled up to the main portal near the cockpit, and the door swung wide, leaving a rounded square of unrelieved black yawning open.

As he reached the stairs, Seto appeared at the summit. He'd removed his coat, and stood in his white shirtsleeves, no tie and the cuffs unbuttoned. The sky bled over him, painting him in shades of red. Like the corrugated metal roof of the hangar, and the reflection glaring off of the terminal windows. The closer he got, the more Dev realized that the other man shivered a little. Seto was almost as slender as he was, and with no coat, this chill air had to be taking its toll.

That in itself was important. Seto Kaiba suffered personal discomfort for no man. In the warm light, he looked almost human, and though the brilliant blue eyes that met his didn't have Tristan's solid warmth, they were welcoming in their own way when Dev made it to the top step.

"Here I am."

Seto nodded, looked at him a moment longer, and turned to go inside. Dev looked back once, toward the huge windows lining the wall of the airport terminal. They were blindingly red, moving minutely in the heavy breeze. What had he hoped to see? Tristan? Around the side of the little building, Dev's gaze roved out to the highway. Hoping to see a familiar pickup. Hoping that Tristan was leaving.

The road was eerily empty.

He was cold.

He ducked inside.

* * *

Tristan waited until Dev was on his way into the terminal before he let go. He carefully made sure the windows were rolled up, locked the doors of his pickup, and slumped in the driver's seat, head back. He took a few hard, gulping breaths. The still air, warm yet from the heater, lay heavy on his chest and made him feel incredibly tired. He reached up to rub the back of his neck and felt the chain still clinging to his throat. Both hands came up, then, and gently undid the clasp.

_"Is that what you want?"_

_"He needs me."_

Slinky, the last light of the red sun slithering over its coils, the chain dripped over his fingertips like a live thing. The silver ring nestled perfectly in the cup of his palm. He unthreaded it and shifted it into his fingers, rubbing the smooth-ground jade inlay in the warm metal, stroking the ball of his index finger on the tiny roughness of the inscription.

_You didn't get her. I won._

He turned the cab light on to read the words, and slowly fell apart. The lamps in the airport parking lot were sparse, and when he reached up and switched off the light, the cab of the pickup was dark. He leaned back into the headrest again and stared up at the ceiling until it blurred. When the hiccupping sobs started, he didn't bother to stop them, eyes shut tight now, grimacing fiercely.

_I need you _here_, Dev._

He covered his eyes with one huge, callused hand, wiping furiously at the damp skin, rubbing it raw and sore and red.

_"Will you take care of him, Tristan? Like you used to."_

Dev had told him what he could, but Tristan couldn't get past his own pain, his own jealousy and his damned _confusion_ long enough to try and help. To really listen. He didn't know if Dev had eaten today – had he? He was so thin…and all Tristan could recall was the cup of coffee with too much sugar in it.

_"Tris…sometimes I think…you're the only thing that's real."_

He'd let him down. Tristan pummeled the armrest with his free fist, jerked to the side and caught his knee against the console hard enough to really hurt. "FUCK!"

_"You're still afraid."_

The truck rolled from side to side on its suspension, shivering eventually to a stop as his temple hit the window and stilled.

* * *

The appointments were lush inside the private plane, and everything was just as Dev remembered. Even the matronly feminine disembodied voice welcoming him by name; urging him to have a seat. It was actually Seto's personal computer, and Dev felt his lips tighten into an ironic smirk. _Just the three of us_. Wherever Seto went, so went the chip-brained 'woman,' who had a sarcastic sense of humor despite her artificial intelligence. Dev wondered sometimes if the security cameras installed in the bedroom were really to protect priceless works of art, or just there because she was a voyeur.

It should have felt like coming home. He knew this place right down to the colors of the olive picks at the miniature bar.

It didn't. Tristan's garage had felt more like home than this. Seto really should have known better than to leave him alone. Dev did most of his worst thinking when there was nobody to distract him.

There was a sudden flooding rush of urgency to get out. This was wrong, just like Tristan told him. Whether or not he was angry at the man, this was _wrong_.

Seto chose then to reappear from the cockpit, having given his pilots the go-ahead to radio the tower for permission to take off.

Someone came and asked for Dev's baggage to stow. He shook his head, mutely refusing the reaching hands. Seto cocked his head. "Duke?"

"This isn't right."

"Do you need something? Did you forget something? I can have one of the men collect it for you."

"You know as well as I do what's wrong."

Seto gave him a piercing look. "Enlighten me."

They stood a body length apart from one another. Neither one made a move to close the space.

Dev thought abstractly that Tristan was different. He didn't ask permission to touch someone, until after he'd already done it. He was _always _too close. But he never forced his hand – not in all the time that Dev had known him.

"Why did you come after me?" Dev asked.

"I already told you. In the message I sent you."

"So tell me again. You know me," The bags were too heavy and Dev dropped them, but stood over them like a guard dog. "I'm pretty hard-headed."

Seto stared at him. He straightened aggressively and turned away, spreading his hands. "This is ridiculous."

"Not if you meant it."

"Meant what?" Seto peered over his shoulder.

"That you loved me."

"You're testing me now?"

"Why not? You tested Tristan." Dev shrugged. "Or actually, _you_ weighted the scores and then let _me _test him."

"I thought we were past that."

"I'm not."

"Then why did you agree to come home?"

"Because you're good at what you do."

"Don't be catty. I could say you are a professional in your own right."

Verbal spars with him were impossible, and even though Dev considered himself reasonably clever, still, arguments with Seto Kaiba felt like swimming in a pool where he couldn't touch the bottom.

"Oh, admit it," Dev broke in, sounding as exhausted as he felt, "we're too much alike to ever work. We know what to say to get what we want at first, but we're awful at following through."

Seto turned again to face him. Dev could see his hands. They dangled at his sides, powerful elegance that he'd cherished. The fingers curled and squeezed, relaxed and squeezed. He was very pale, though whether that was from the tasteful recessed lighting or from an actual sensation of fear, Dev couldn't tell.

"This is going to wear off, sometime, just like it did before. And when it does, what'll you do? What will _I _do? I love you, Seto."

"I said I—"

"Yes. And it's going to suffocate me."

"I refuse to argue with you, although I disagree. Do you mean to say that you're not going with me, after all? What about your game?"

"I can handle my game. What about yours?"

Security guards heaved the doors shut, seconds before the muted drone of the engines signaled their clearance for takeoff. Both men turned at once toward the exit, and then at one another.

* * *

The sound of jet engines firing up made Tristan jerk upright. He looked from side to side to see if anyone had seen him, and suddenly felt more pissed off at that single self-conscious thought than he'd ever been before in his life.

For the umpteenth millionth time…this was _wrong_. And there was no way he could do anything about it from here.

He boiled out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition, and started for the terminal.

A long, metallic nose slid into view from behind the airport, as an elegant silver jet taxied out towards the runway.

"NO!"

Tristan hit the chain link fence separating him from the airstrip. He curled his fingers in the twists of metal, and hoisted himself up.

It was a small airport, but the fence was too high to scale, and there was a coil of barbed wire at the top as a secondary precaution.

Tristan nearly reached the top before he lost his grip, yelping as his jacket caught on the sharp prongs poking out and tore.

He fell back, hit the ground off-balance, stumbled two wild steps backwards and staggered to a halt.

After a dazed second or two, his gaze shifted to the door of the airport.

_Please God…I'm begging you…don't let him get away from me…_

His vision cleared. Common sense grabbed the upper hand and slapped emotion's fingers away from the reins.

Long legs pumping, he tore across the grass.

The terminal was empty of passengers, since the Amarillo Municipal Airport wasn't much more than a few miles of asphalt laid down for private cessnas. But thankfully, there was still someone at the desk, apparently just for the jet about to depart. Both palms struck the edge of the counter and Tristan's wrists buzzed as he gasped desperately for enough breath to speak. The young blonde woman behind the counter blinked at him in concern. "Sir?"

"Stop…" gasp, "stop that plane!"

"I'm sorry sir, but it's too—" He didn't let her finish, a low growl of impatience snarling its way up out of his throat.

Casting wildly from side to side, Tristan saw the exit behind and to the right of the counter that led straight to the airstrip. Out there was the sleek body of the jet, like a mirror-polished bullet, reflecting the dying sun in hot red streaks.

He pushed away from the counter and started for the glassed-in exit. It was a small airstrip. The entire terminal was on one level, and the portal would spill him out onto the concrete platform directly in front of the hangar.

The receptionist from the front desk was in tow, but he ignored her.

Kaiba's jet had reached the end of the runway and was taxiing around in preparation for takeoff. He reached for the door handle to yank it open.

It was locked.

The young woman from the counter caught at his arm, and he stared at her in wild shock, tensed to throw her off.

"Stop! I'm sorry, sir, that's passenger access only!"

He turned back to the window.

Every breath started to hurt.

The jet taxied down to the end of the runway and turned, and picked up speed.

Nothing could stop the ascent, and in moments, the aircraft was gone.

A silver hawk piercing the sky, circling around, dwindling to the size of a needle. Gone. Headed back to Japan.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist repeated, as Tristan's free hand raised to the window, first to strike, then thought better of it. Fingertips gently grazed the glass in a futile attempt to call back the jet. Then he _did _shake her off, and leaned fully against the glass to take comfort from the cool press on his forehead. The heel of the other palm dug deep into one eye socket.

A moan of defeat rucked up from deep inside his chest.

Something tickled his cheek.

He raised his head and examined his hand.

The chain from around his neck was still tangled in his left fist by some miracle, Dev's ring hugging the second knuckle of his index finger.

He looked at it, rolling it over his fingertips briefly, and straightened.

"Sir?"

At the word, Tristan took a deep breath at a giddy burst of excitement. An unbidden little bubble of euphoria.

He was getting the first flight back to Japan that he could afford.

After that…he'd improvise.

But however it turned out, he wasn't going home without a fight. He wouldn't know until he tried.

_You didn't get her. I won._

He wasn't going to lose Dev. Not again. Not a third time. The ring didn't fit his finger, so he shoved it into his pocket along with its chain and turned back to the woman.

She was tugging nervously at her hair, pulling it back away from her face with an anxious expression.

"The love of my life was on that plane," Tristan explained.

She stared at him. He smiled back weakly, looking appropriately like windblown hell.

She took pity on him, hazel eyes softening, and he could see that she would have liked someone to chase her down like that. "Come on, we'll get you back to the office, and you can get cleaned up, if you want."

He looked down at himself, and noticed a smear of blood on his jacket and jeans where he'd thrust his hand into his pocket. He'd scuffed the side of his palm and wrist open when he'd fallen off the fence. It wasn't bleeding much, but it felt bruised, probably from battering the armrest of the driver's side door. Grimacing at what the _armrest _was going to look like, Tristan nodded meekly.

"Well, maybe it wasn't meant to be," She offered sympathetically, and showed him to the bathroom.

She was waiting for him at the desk when he came back out a minute later, an improvised compress of paper towel over the wound. "Thanks," He said, and almost meant it.

"She'd be a lunatic to walk away from you."

"He," Tristan corrected, not caring when her eyes widened a little and a frown took the place of the sympathetic 'she didn't deserve you anyway' smile.

Whatever the rest of her expression was, Tristan missed it as a slim silhouette appeared in front of the glass he'd just left, painted black against the red sky.

It was burdened by two shoulder-bags that looked quite heavy. They hit the floor with a double thud as soon as Tristan turned.

The last of the sun slipped down, and Tristan could see his face at last.

It was Dev. And he was smiling.

Tristan started his way, but didn't make three long running steps before the other's body cannoned into his.

He _oofed_ and fell back a step, and caught the deep scent of aftershave, breathed in the puffs of breath washing against his face and tasted cinnamon.

A sob rasped its way out of his throat.

"I couldn't do it!" Dev hissed against his mouth, the upward hitch of his voice reduced to a breathless squeal.

"_Shit!_" he'd had caught Tristan's forearms and squeezed just a little too tight, revealing that he was probably going to have a bruise all the way up to his elbow from his tantrum in the cab of his truck.

"God, I'm sorry!" Dev lifted his hand as he hissed and took in the effect of the pad of paper towel against his skin. "What the hell were you _doing_?"

"Going after you!"

"Why? After I—"

Tristan shoved him out to arm's length with the heels of his hands. "I couldn't let you get on that plane. Not without knowing…"

"I know how much you love me, Tris. That's why I—" Dev silenced at an impatient shake of Tristan's head.

"Let me finish, will you?"

At the other's stare, and then quiet nod, Tristan drew a deep breath.

"You were right. I'm scared. We've _never _had it easy, you know? Back in Domino, I was terrified that one day, I was going to have to wake up without you because you'd been…" He couldn't quite bring up the words, but the thought of death lingered there in the empty space, "…or I'd end up—"

"You were _worried _about something like that?"

"—because of a stupid mistake. I always needed something to protect, even when we were kids, remember?"

"I remember,"

"But I can't keep doing this. I am _tired _of doing this." The words were falling free as though he'd rehearsed them, and maybe he had, in bits and pieces. Whenever he remembered watching Dev walk out into the snow. Whenever he remembered pulling away when he shouldn't have. The other man thought he'd missed those expressions of quiet hurt. He hadn't. "If I lose you againbecause of stupidity…" Tristan broke off, blinking hard and looking down, as though his eyes hurt.

"I'm not going back."

"…I love you. And whether you think so, _I _need you."

"Tris, I'm _staying_ here."

"I don't want to—"

"You don't _have _to. Look! I'm right here!" Dev slid closer, molding the length of his body to Tristan's. The cold air from the hangar platform still clung to the folds of his jacket, as almost reflexively, the brunette's arm went around his waist. "Right in front of you. So you can quit acting like I died, Tiger. I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't have to say anything for a few minutes, then. Tristan gently cupped the back of his head with his uninjured hand. His gaze flickered down to softly smiling lips, and then back up.

The worst was over, at last.

Dev curled his fingers against the nape of Tristan's neck, and shivered as a chapped and windblown mouth closed over his. His lips parted under the pressure of it, and he folded his elbows around Tristan's neck to seam them closer.

He missed the soft flutter of paper towel hitting the floor, and missed the sudden loss of pressure around his waist until Tristan pulled away.

Dev looked down at a rustle of fabric. Tristan was rummaging in his pocket, then seemed to think better of it. The hand withdrew, empty. "How did you get away from Kaiba?" Tristan asked.

"He let me go."

"_Let _you?"

"I suppose I insisted. I can't imagine what another year with him would be like." There was a pause. "What were you after?"

"Hm?"

"Your pocket."

"Oh, it was just—" Tristan's rapid disclaimer bit off, as Dev leaned a little to the left and burrowed his hand into the pocket of his blue jeans. They withdrew, trailing an unclasped gold chain. The ring slid off as he tugged it out, but he caught it neatly before it could fall. Eyebrows arched as he felt the smooth, body-warmed metal in the cup of his palm, and held it up. Tristan watched, head lowered, forehead just brushing against the soft curl of dark hair at Dev's temple.

"This is my ring." Dev murmured at last, still studying it, "You kept it?" Then he smiled. "You would."

Tristan's little breathy laugh was his assent. "It's still yours. But you don't have to wear it. Just keep it."

"I missed it." But he slid it into his pocket all the same…for later. After he'd seen the one he'd given Tristan again. "You were wearing it today, weren't you?"

Tristan didn't have the chance to answer. Before he could speak, Dev's mouth was on his again.

It was probably for the best.

* * *

_Epilogue..._

Tristan liked the look of his skin against Dev's; burnished tan and creamy gold. He was a little paler than he liked, with the onset of winter, but when the desert sun rose in the summer, the difference between them would be even more dramatic.

The thought of time was comforting now. In another year. Another ten years. Dev wasn't going anywhere.

His best friend was sleeping peacefully beside him, the bridge of his nose pressed firmly into Tristan's broad chest. Even when Tristan rolled over onto his other side, the other man hardly stirred, only snuggled close to his back and flung an arm over his waist. Nearly asleep himself, he stroked the ridge of knuckles raised against his ribs, and the slightly raised edge of the warm silver and jade hugging one slender digit. He tangled his fingers with the drowsy, pliant ones curved on his side, and smiled at the abrasion of metal on metal. Silver on gold.


End file.
